


Sink

by cherryblossombomb



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Esteem, Self-Harm, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:49:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryblossombomb/pseuds/cherryblossombomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard got away, but he didn't give up. Hurting Stiles was part of his plan to get to Scott, and hurting Stiles is now part of his plan to hurt Derek. With his thirst for revenge and the new alpha pack arriving, things seem to be getting worse and worse for everyone, yet nobody seems to notice Stiles drifting away...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trapped

Sometimes, Stiles really just wanted to give up.

He was just – sick of life. Like, just… Okay, no, he wasn’t tired of living. There was a lot of stuff he wanted to do. But it would be pretty damn awesome if he wasn’t always the Robin to someone else’s Batman. Y’know what? No. He didn’t even really mind being the sidekick. He just wished that he wasn’t _always_ the one other people leaned on, wasn’t the one who had to do favours for people he didn’t owe anything, wasn’t the one who had to hold it all together when everyone else was falling apart. Even if he was too.

But hey, what does it matter anyway? He was Stiles. He was an eccentric ADHD-addled kid who by no standards would ever be considered _normal_ , and he’d probably never want to be because that’d be boring and boring is quite possibly the worst thing anyone could ever be, at least in Stiles’s book, except for maybe violence-prone psychopathic _ass_ , and he’s not really entirely sure who that passive-aggressive thought is directed at.

Anyway.

He was Stiles. Too weird to fit in at high school, too secretive to have his dad’s support, too geeky for a girlfriend, too _Stiles_ for pretty much everybody because there weren’t enough adjectives or adverbs to describe him.

Okay, so. What everybody saw was just that: Stiles, the easily distracted kid whose big mouth gets him into trouble but big brain gets everyone else out of it. Stiles, the guy who’s so freaking weird to be around people without them getting frustrated or sick of him. Stiles, the human who’s too weak to save anybody else.

But holy _God_ , was it _that_ wrong of him to hope that his _best_ friend would, oh, I dunno, give a damn? Sometimes, maybe? Okay, sure, Stiles got that Scott had near constant girl trouble that was perhaps a liiittle worse than the average teenagers’ love life, but still. Stiles just – just wanted someone to be there. Occasionally. Like when he had to keep Derek above the water for hours while weighed down by soaking wet clothes as his heart thumped fast enough to hurt because _he_ couldn’t fight off the bloody kanima. Scott could. Of course Scott could; Scott could do things Stiles couldn’t even before the whole werewolf thing.

So maybe Stiles was slightly envious of his best friend. He knew Scott’s life wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows either, but at least… at least he could protect the people he cared about.

And he always did.

Which was why Stiles felt legitimately, well, betrayed when Scott just… ignored him.

He kept telling himself that Scott came in the end, that his best friend pulled through, but he couldn’t forget the ache in his chest, the hurt beneath the frustration, when Scott had brushed him off before. He couldn’t help but think, _What if it happens again? What if someone’s dying, if I’m dying, and he just doesn’t have time for me?_

Then Stiles told himself he was being ridiculous, that he’s more neurotic than the sourwolf who seems to constantly be on his time of the month, but even that didn’t bring a smile to his face.

It wasn’t just Scott.

It was Lydia. How he’d loved her all those years, waiting patiently for her to even acknowledge his existence, and then finding out she was in love with Jackson. Initially, he told himself it wouldn’t last: it’d be like the movies, where the girl fell for the jock and then realised her heart truly lied with the unpopular but kindhearted loser.

Except not really, ‘cause in most chickflicks Stiles has seen, it’s usually the outcast girl ending up with the popular guy, who has a change of heart. By no means was Lydia an outcast, not really, and, loathe as he was to admit it, Jackson wasn’t a jerk. At least not to Lydia.

And his life wasn’t a movie. There was that.

Although if it was, he wouldn’t want it to be like a romcom. He’d want to be freaking Charles Xavier or something.

At least then he’d be useful.

Or something.

Derek could be Erik. Their names were even similar.

Yeah. Derek. It was him too. Scott inadvertently made his best friend feel betrayed and alone; Lydia unintentionally broke his heart, and Derek…

Derek was only around when he needed something from Stiles. Not to mention, he usually sought out Scott. Had Stiles ever been greeted with a “Hey, Stiles, how’ve you been?” ever. Nope, instead it was always wallslamming or manhandling and demands of Scott’s whereabouts or something he wanted that Stiles probably didn’t even know the existence of until recently.

But hey, Derek wasn’t the only one that didn’t really give a damn about Stiles’s feelings. Lydia hadn’t when she broke his heart, Scott hadn’t when he’d left him for dead, and—

God _damn_ it!

Okay, he – he knew it wasn’t their faults. He honestly felt bad for them. He felt his heart lurch when he saw Lydia cry, felt almost bad for Jackson when he saw the honest terror in the guy’s eyes during the game, felt numb when Scott looked empty because he didn’t feel anywhere near okay without Allison, and he even felt empathy and remorse for Derek and his family.

But. Just – he always felt so many things for so many people, and… and, at the same time, felt things for himself. And he had to swallow his emotions, his empathy, his fear, his grief, while shouldering everyone else’s.

Maybe it sounded like and excuse by now, but… he was only human.

He was, admittedly, terrified. He always was whenever something like this happened. Like with Matt. When he was paralysed, helpless, watching his dad get hurt because Stiles was too damn weak to do anything and Scott and Derek had to save the day while he just lied there, hoping not to be noticed.

Fuck.

In a way, he was glad it was him, lost and confined in this dark place, because as scared as he was right now – and he was pretty damn scared, to be quite honest – it was better than worrying about the disappearance of someone else, worrying about them being scared, worrying about them making it back alive.

His dad would probably be worrying about him right now though, which only served to make him feel guilty and even more fearful. He was always making his dad concerned or angry or some other negative adjective. A long one. A complicated one that might possibly describe the crippling anxiety churning in his gut right now.

He felt sick.

And this is why he couldn’t really talk to the school counsellor properly. Sure, he could mention panicking, could explain how it was hard to breathe, how it was like drowning, but she’d never _get_ it. Perhaps the only people who ever would were the ones he couldn’t talk to, since he was trying to take on all their problems too.

Well, not really. He never did anything to actually help them. What could he do? He was human. The weakest out of everyone he knew. Couldn’t handle a gun if he tried, and wouldn’t particularly want to. Growing up, knowing his dad was off to work under constant threat, didn’t really enforce the whole walking in his footsteps thing into Stiles.

He’d wanted to be a superhero or a pokémon trainer, but that didn’t really happen. Especially not the superhero part. How could he be, when he was stumbling after werewolves that could do one hundred times the things he could with a hundred times more talent.

He inhaled sharply as his arm twitched involuntarily, and a searing pain went through his shoulder and pulsated as quickly as his furious heartbeat. Good _God_ , that hurt. Shit. Shit shit shit shit _fuck_. Who knew an old man had it in him? And what a kick in the self-esteem it was that he was knocked out and dragged away by a man three or four times his age.

If he were a werewolf, like Scott, he wouldn’t have ended up here. He wouldn’t have being taken so easily, and he wouldn’t have lost so easily, wouldn’t have given up so easily.

Forcing himself not to think about how he couldn’t compare to his best friend, he finally managed to pry open his squeezed-shut eyes, only to see…

Nothing.

That was… anti-climactic.

And still pretty worrying, because Stiles had never liked sharing his bedroom with spiders, so he wouldn’t enjoy sharing this cellar with them either.

He shifted slightly, only to choke and freeze as pain went up his leg, lightning fast and agonising. _Shit_.

Oh, god. God. Damn.

Okay. He might be blind thanks to the all-encompassing darkness that seemed to make breathing even harder, but he could feel. All right. With the utmost hesitance and wariness, Stiles shifted his left arm, anticipating the flame-hot pain that had erupted in his right, and felt relief drain him of a sigh when it barely gave a twinge. Okay, cool, good, the old sadist hadn’t broken his left arm. Courteous.

Maybe half way through beating Stiles up he remembered he was just a human and wouldn’t heal broken bones in less than a few hours.

Nice. Good. Faaantastic.

Okay.

Inhaling shakily – and wow, how had he not noticed his breathing was so shallow before? – Stiles lifted his left arm to feel, flinching when he felt lightning-fast pain shoot through his leg and holy _God_ , it was pretty darn obvious that the guy had freaking broken his leg or _something_.

With quivering fingertips, he felt the leg that had hurt like a _bitch_ only minutes ago, and yep, it was at an odd angle and maybe he had to learn to prioritise because his first thought was _Going to be on the bench for at least an entire season then, great._

But at least thoughts like those were better than the lung-crushing terror of being chained up in an unfamiliar, dark place where he was pretty much lost. And alone.

Really, he wasn’t sure if this was worse than when he was paralysed by the kanima.

The kanima. Jackson. Shit.

“God, what happened?” he croaked, voice impossibly hoarse, and lips stinging as they tugged at a cut.

_God, is that my voice?_

He half expected Grandpa to enter at that point, deliver a Machiavellian speech worthy of Iago, thus giving away the details of his evil plan while Stiles miraculously summoned his animal friends to deliver a message to Derek who’d swoop in and save him because Derek definitely owed Stiles one.

Or two.

Or ten.

But, save for Stiles’s wandering thoughts, only stifling silence followed his question.

And silence was one thing Stiles was not a fan of. Along with spiders.

Except this time, the silence might be worse…

“My God, Derek, if your werewolf powers allow you to do anything right now, please say you can hear me. Because you so totally—” He choked on his words, voice cracking slightly, but he could always lie about that later. And he would, because he’d definitely get out. “You owe me.” He sniffed, as if breathing in harshly could hold back the prickling sensation in his eyes. “Don’t pretend you don’t, you stupid sourwolf,” he said into the silence, and if the insult came out as a hoarse whisper, well… it’d be okay to admit. Just because nobody could hear him.

Even if maybe a tiny part of him hoped Derek would hear. Or at least someone. And they’d worry about him for a chance.

And maybe they’d – maybe they’d ask him if he was okay.

Maybe.

**x.**

He lurched awake, gasping like he’d just been pulled from water, inhaling greedily because he just couldn’t get enough air and – good _God_ , his chest hurt. Everything hurt.

His head was thumping and his eyes were stinging and he still couldn’t move his right arm or leg without searing pain making him wish to be unconscious.

But Jesus, how had he even fallen asleep in the first place? It wasn’t exactly comfortable down here, nor was it particularly welcoming. Then again, he wasn’t particularly in the position to be picky about where to pass out seeing as his ankles were chained up.

Suddenly, dog jokes didn’t seem so funny anymore.

 _If Allison had been kidnapped, Scott would be here immediately, crazy family or not_ , thought Stiles miserably, blinking ferociously as his eyes stung because – because he didn’t know how much time had passed or if anyone had even noticed his disappearance or if anyone cared enough to want to find him—

As scared as he was of facing Psycho Grandpa, he craved for a voice to hear, for another presence down here, to not be alone and silent and hurting and scared.

Except he always felt like this. Minus the broken limbs, sure, but… He couldn’t remember the last time he felt like he could breathe. When he felt safe and wanted and just… not alone.

Just. Scott’s mom was always there for him; she was accepting her son’s, uh, furry little problem. Allison was a problem for him, sure, but sometimes she proved just how much she loved him. And he had Stiles, always watching his back, always treading foot into deep, dangerous waters just to protect his best friend. But a lot of the time, it didn’t really feel like Scott was there for him.

He immediately felt guilty for thinking it, remembering Scott’s astonished face when Stiles had confessed he couldn’t do the things Scott could, ‘cause Scott never really knew when Stiles was feeling useless or terrified or miserable, and that wasn’t his fault. Nobody really knew. He could lie about being fine without his heartbeat escalating; he was so used to it after years of practice.

Not that anybody he knew wasn’t so emotionally constipated that they could actually let him talk to them.

Derek was probably the most emotionally constipated guy he knew.

 _Then again, he has a right to_ , Stiles thought ruefully, before feeling a slight bitter resentment set in. Allison screwed with his best friend’s head and, yeah, he knew how much it sucked to lose someone, to feel a part of you die along with your mother, but he didn’t submit to any crazy as fuck grandfathers out to kill everyone. Jesus, he – he spent so long, so fucking long grieving for his mother alone, crying himself to sleep in silence while he and his father treaded on eggshells around one another. Allison—Allison had her father there still too, and he actively tried to talk to her, to ensure she adhered to the code, to ascertain her safety, just like Stiles’s dad. Difference was, Allison had Scott’s full attention; he was always ready to run and save her, listen to her, hold her… And Stiles?

Well, Stiles just wished his right hand could do all those things for him.

He tried to laugh at his self-deprecating thought, but each movement jostled his throbbing body. God, the first time he was kidnapped by this maniac of a grandfather, he’d escaped with a cut lip and grazed cheek. The dude’s intention was to hurt Scott through Stiles, but that obviously hadn’t gone according to plan. Stiles had been more roughed up during lacrosse than when he’d been beaten up by Gerard. He had maybe sort of hoped that Scott would feel _something_ on his best friend’s behalf though.

Then again, after the whole… thing – okay, how the hell could one word summarise fucking werewolves and giant lizards and hunters? This was fucking Supernatural or something – he and Scott had practiced for lacrosse together, a friendly outing that they hadn’t had in… ages. Despite Scott totally cheating with his wolfie powers, it had been… fun. Stiles had felt better, ‘cause he had his best friend back. At least for a little while, anyway.

Damn, no wonder he was seeing the school counsellor. Jesus.

Whatever. Enough fucking introspection; the self-pity party was way over. Stiles had always been a believer in brushing problems under the carpet and letting them fester into dust until they were swept away. Besides, he had bigger problems. Such as his probably broken leg and arm and being trapped in a basement. Again. With no Boyd and Erica for company. Although, to be honest, he was honestly relieved that nobody else was getting hurt.

But that was only to his knowledge.

 _Ergo, I’ve gotta get the hell out of here_ , he thought, as if reminding himself; his mind was going off on a tangent without his permission. When had he last had his adderall anyway?

No, that didn’t matter. Focus, Stiles, focus.

Okay.

_First things first: move without screaming when your arm and leg hurts like hell. I can do that._

Swallowing thickly and inhaling to prepare himself for the inevitable onslaught of agony, Stiles slowly pushed himself away from the wall with his moveable arm, hastily shifting his weight onto his good leg. He closed his eyes, feeling his broken bones twinge at the slight movement, but felt steely determination grip him. He remembered when his father had been knocked out and Stiles had been _useless_ , utterly _worthless_ , paralysed on the ground, terrified he’d lost the _only_ person he had left.

 _Better to feel broken bones than nothing at all_ , he told himself firmly, and began using his good arm and leg to crawl to the stairs, unstable as he used only one side of his body. He grunted slightly, grimacing as his breathing became ragged from only the few feet he’d crawled. “Okay,” he whispered to himself, “Okay, good start, Stiles. Now you just gotta take on the stairs and you’re home and dry.”

Despite his words, his throat felt dry and it was hard to swallow; he had been on the verge of panic since he’d woken up, confined by the same four walls that he’d had the shit kicked out of him in last time, trapped by the same old man who’d tried to kill – and did kill – so many people. Stiles’s bravado was just that: bravado. Not bravery, though – never that. If he were brave, he’d talk to his dad, he’d tell him he loves him and that sometimes he still cries because he misses his mom so much. If he were brave, he’d have overcome his paralysis and saved his dad. If he were brave, he wouldn’t feel so hopeless, wouldn’t think he should just… give up.

But as much as he didn’t seem to need anybody, some of them needed him. Sometimes. Weak as he was, he was – he could be informative, he could research. He could…

God, he didn’t know what he could do; he didn’t even know if he could clamber his way up those ominous looking stairs, and even if he did he didn’t know if he’d be able to get out.

“Only one way to find out,” he said and, with another huge breath, he pulled himself up, his working arm trembling in an effort to hold his body weight, and then he leaned on one leg, gasping. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Let’s do this.” Pursing his lips and grimacing already, he tried to hop up one step, eyes snapping open when it creaked. “Oh shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit.”

He held his breath, expecting Gerard to storm in, shove him down the stairs and tie him up in shackles and—

“Holy _God_ , what is wrong with me?” he snapped at himself, shaking his head and frowning. No. No, if Gerard wanted him immobile, he’d have broken his other leg; he’d have tied him up already. Last time, he did it to hurt Scott, and… maybe – maybe since Gerard thought he was affiliated with Derek’s pack now, he… did it to get to Derek?

What a fucking stupid plan that was, then. Derek wouldn’t give a _damn_ if Stiles was hurt.

Okay. Just – just a few more stairs. “Right,” he said, and then leaned down, balancing on his arm as he lifted his leg, and then heaved the broken one up behind it. “Better. Why’d I try hopping? Think, Stiles – you’re the brains of all the operations. You’ve got to _plan_ , strategise. I’d be awesome at Wizard’s Chess.”

He wasn’t sure how long it took him to get up the stairs, but he was sweating profusely when he did, his heart was beating erratically and breathing hurt his throat. And even though his broken leg hadn’t touched the ground properly, it still hurt like hell.

He moved to twist the doorknob, brushing off the shaking in his hands that almost made him miss it, and winced as he twisted it, a mantra of _pleasepleaseplease_ going through his head.

It opened.

“Oh my God.” The words escaped as a breathe, and he inhaled deeply, trying to get as much as he could because, oh god, Jesus, it was suddenly even harder to breathe. “Okay, no, now’s not the time,” he told himself, like he could control his panic. Maybe if someone else were here, he’d be so focused on ensuring their safety that he’d be too preoccupied to panic.

Aaand cue immediately feeling like an awful person for wanting someone to be in that situation. God.

Leaning against the wall, Stiles listened for any tell-tale footsteps. Not that he could really outrun anyone as he was now, but… he could hide.

_As always._

He shook his head, as if it would make those thoughts go away, and then hopped in small spurts down the corridor. He blinked away the blurriness around the edges of his eyes and wished he could hear something other than his erratic breathing.

And there was the door, his escape, and it was so damn easy he felt like crying. He was just a freaking pawn in this whole thing, wasn’t he? There to pass messages between Derek and Scott, there to be the sidekick, there to get the shit kicked out of him to each someone else a lesson…

He choked on a stifled sob, but his eyes didn’t fill with tears.

“You can have your stupid little panic attack when you get the hell _out_ of here,” he hissed to himself, clutching the doorknob and twisting it, pushing the door open as softly as he could, just in case.

He didn’t want to be dragged down there again. Didn’t want to have to face his thoughts again.

Heart thumping when he managed to escape, he dismissed his broken bones and tried to make a break for it, alternating between running and hopping and limping through piles of autumn leaves and uneven roads.

All he could think about was his dad. God, he hoped he was all right.

His breath caught in his throat when his leg finally gave out on him and he went slamming into the hard surface of the road. Pain as hot as a roaring fire sparked through his leg, and he tried to dig his fingers into the road to hold onto something as the pain coursed through his body.

“Oh God,” he gasped, gritting his teeth.

“What the hell happened?”

He jerked to the side, the familiar voice right by his ear, and then squinted up to see—

“Derek,” he said, completely and utterly not sure what to do or say. “Uh. Wow, this is lucky, ‘cause I kind of need a hand.” He smiled weakly, half expecting Derek to just scoff and leave him to crawl back on his own.

Instead, with his scowl fixed firmly in place, Derek shifted Stiles and pulled him into his arms with more care than Stiles thought him capable of. He tried to mask his pain, but his breath hitched when his arm was inadvertently bumped against Derek’s chest, and Derek froze.

“S – um, sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise, you idiot,” Derek said, glaring furiously, but he didn’t spit the words or drop Stiles, so he figured the guy wasn’t too pissed off at him. Derek looked away, glaring at something in the distance, maybe the half moon or an innocent street cat, and started running. Somehow, he was smooth and agile, avoiding any bumps to as not to hurt Stiles more.

Stiles licked his dry, cut lips and felt nervousness bubble in his stomach as he asked, “Can you take me home?”

Derek glanced at him then, rage giving way to confusion. He didn’t stop glowering, though. At least this was normal. It made Stiles feel a little safer.

As safe as one could feel in the arms of a temperamental werewolf, anyway.

“With your injuries, I figured I’d be taking you to the hospital,” Derek said slowly, like Stiles was too stupid to live.

“Dad’ll be worried,” Stiles mumbled, eyes fluttering as his head drooped against Derek’s shoulder.

Derek scoffed. “He’ll be even more worried if his kid shows up bleeding and falling over on his doorstep.”

“I’m a little bruised, but I’ll be—”

“ _Don’t_ , Stiles,” Derek snapped angrily, voice slipping into a growl. Stiles tensed slightly, and Derek tried to calm himself down. Pretty difficult when someone was—was bleeding in your arms. And when that someone was Stiles. Stiles was never supposed to get hurt. He shouldn’t have ever been one of the casualties. “Your leg’s broken, your arm’s broken, I think your shoulder’s dislocated. Your lip is cut and you probably have bruises everywhere.” Stiles was sure he growled this time. “And I can smell that bastard on you.”

Stiles shut his eyes, repressing a shudder, and rubbed his cheek on Derek’s shoulder, hoping he was subtle. He’d rather smell of Derek than _him_.

“And don’t pretend you’re fine. Your heart’s not stopped beating like you just ran a marathon.”

“Or saw you in the dark. Which I did, just now.”

Derek chuckled, a breathy sound that wasn’t entirely amused but also wasn’t annoyed like he’d usually be.

Derek actually didn’t get pissed at him for that.

“You’re not angry at me. Oh my God. Betty, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore…”

“You’ve never been to Kansas.”

“When I’m out of hospital, you’re watching movies with me so you won’t be so ignorant.”

Derek shook his head. “Whatever.”

“You haven’t told me to stop talking,” Stiles observed, eyes fluttering against Derek’s neck as he fought to keep them open.

“Stop talking,” said Derek, squeezing Stiles tighter ever so slightly. He probably wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t so focused on feeling. Hell, Derek probably didn’t realise he did it himself…

“Derek…” he said softly, lifting his good arm to grasp Derek’s shirt to get his attention. Derek looked at him, frowning again. Did he ever stop? Seriously? “Last time, he did it to get to Scott…” He trailed off, unwilling to divulge his thoughts and suddenly feeling ridiculously stupid for ever considering it would get to Derek.

“And this time, he did it to get to me,” Derek snarled, a growl emanating from his throat. “I knew he wasn’t dead. I should’ve known the bastard would do something like this!” His eyes narrowed and glinted a dangerous red. “I’ll kill him.”

Stiles, for once, didn’t know what to say, wasn’t sure how to joke about it, or brush it off. He swallowed, burying his face deeper into Derek’s neck, but he was too anxious to pass out.

Derek didn’t speak after that.

For some reason, Stiles wished he would.


	2. Choke

When Scott visited, Stiles pretended to be asleep.

He knew that Scott could probably tell that he wasn’t, but he didn’t call him out on it, didn’t force him to talk. Stiles always liked that Scott never pried and always backed off, but at the same time it was kind of disappointing how he stopped trying so quickly that… sometimes Stiles had to question whether he actually cared, or if asking was only ever a formality. He felt guilty for doubting Scott, who had always been faithful to Stiles, had always been there on the anniversary of – of his mother’s death, and never got pissed off at him if he rambled too much. Just – all that stuff was, you know, pre-Allison. Stiles was kind of scared that soon Scott would forget Stiles’s birthday—which he never had because, due to his job, his dad had been pretty busy on Stiles’s birthdays for a while now—and forget all the holidays they’d invented together, and forget their game nights, and… forget his mum’s death.

It’s not like his dad was ever around on those days. Sure, his dad seemed miserable and guilty for days—even weeks—after the anniversary, after dismissing and ignoring his son throughout the duration of it, opting instead to go out and get drunk and sometimes not return home until the next day. Stiles always knew when he did that; it wasn’t as if he could sleep those nights. The last two years he’d spent at Scott’s house, trying to distract himself. Scott didn’t get him to talk about it if Stiles eventually started tearing up, but he did throw his arm around him and give him an almost-hug.

That was probably the extent of physical affection he’d gotten since his mom died. Almost-hugs and shoulder smacks, and maybe Derek’s habit of slamming him into walls was his own way of hugging Stiles.

Probably not, but hey, he could dream.

But, just – nobody around him really talked about their feelings, either. Since the whole werewolf thing started, people went to Stiles for advice and to vent (sometimes vent their frustrations on _him_ , but hey, whatever floats their boat always does sink his) but they didn’t really talk to each other. Unless it was a life-or-death situation.

His mind immediately flashed to Lydia’s and Jackson’s embrace and he grimaced. He was sort of trying to force himself to get over her. He saw the pure love on their faces when they kissed. As if seeing them kiss wasn’t enough, it was as if their emotions were tangible; and he knew Lydia would never feel that way for him, even if he did buy her jewellery and a flat-screen TV for her birthday.

(Which he did take back, by the way, only to add an oversized teddy bear wearing a bright blue bow around its neck because it matched her eyes. But, whatever.)

He kind of did resent Jackson a little, admittedly. He’d be lying if he said he was fine with it, but he’d also be lying if he said they didn’t deserve each other. Not in a deprecating way, either. Part of him was dreading the scornful remarks they might make about his long-suffering feelings for Lydia, even though he knew he’d just brush them off and only mope about it in private. They probably wouldn’t say anything mean though. They were pretty nice, at least nowadays, but that only made him feel worse. They seemed to be so enveloped with each other that Stiles was just another face in the hallway, just like how he was slowly drifting out of Scott’s focus with every moment he spent chasing after Allison.

So why should he have to look at him? Why should Stiles pretend everything’s cool when it’s not, and focus on Scott when Stiles was probably becoming disposable to him? To – to freaking _everyone_? Could he not be expendable to at least one person?

He could hear the heart monitor speed up suddenly, and forced his emotions down so nobody would come rushing in. He cracked his eyes open but they felt so heavy, although on the plus side (meaning on the ‘Stiles’s low expectations side’), Scott was gone and only an unrecognisable nurse entered, smiling at Stiles. He could see the weariness in the man’s eyes. Working in any medical field must get so depressing sometimes. He’d know. Kind of.

“Mr. Stilinski,” the nurse said, flipping papers and speed reading them before snapping it shut and smiling at him again. “I’m Nurse Darcy. Nice to finally be able to talk to you,” he said, and Stiles gave him a weak salute since his throat felt like it was burning.

“Hey,” he forced out, hoarse.

“While we’ve been giving you everything you need,” he said, nodding at all the wires that slid into his arms. Gross. “I’m pretty sure you need some water.” He poured some and then carefully removed Stiles’s oxygen mask. “This wasn’t really necessary; it was primarily for precaution. You were pretty badly hurt, and it’s gonna feel even worse when the morphine wears off,” he said with an apologetic look.

“I’ve had worse,” Stiles said after chugging down some of the water. “Well,” he amended, seeing the guy’s troubled look, “Not really, but I’ve imagined – I mean, just. I’ve _seen_ worse.” Crap, why’d he say that? “A couple of broken bones aren’t too bad. They’re not gonna stop me, Doc.” He grinned.

“Nurse,” the man corrected as an afterthought, as if he were accustomed to it. “So, Mr. Stilinski, you’re going to need to give a police report, and then we’d like to talk to you. About considering therapy,” he added after a pause. Stiles was grateful he didn’t postpone it; he hated not knowing what was going on.

“Physio-therapy? I’m fine, Doc. Nurse,” he said. “Broken bones’ll heal.”

“Yeah,” Nurse Darcy agreed amicably, looking apologetic again, “but what I actually meant was psychotherapy, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles held his breath as his heart rate faltered and then sped up.

“You’ve seen the counsellor at your school, haven’t you?” he continued, like this wasn’t a big deal. Which it probably wasn’t. Tonnes of kids – and adults – needed psychotherapy during their lives at some point. It was just that Stiles… didn’t need it. He didn’t have day-mares or visions like Lydia, he wasn’t abused like Isaac, he didn’t have a psycho family like Allison, and – and he was fine. He was fine, just like he had been his whole life, just like he had been after his mom died, just like he had been when his dad started drinking, just like he had been when Scott got bitten by a werewolf—

Stiles was fine. He couldn’t afford not to be. And – and besides, he barely had enough time for schoolwork amidst all the drama unfolding within Beacon Hills. His teachers were pissed off at him enough as it was, which wasn’t fair at all because he was still maintaining As and Bs despite spending a lot of his time escaping certain death or helping other people avoid that fate. Whenever Mr. Harris ridiculed Stiles for, I dunno, freaking _breathing_ , Stiles wasn’t to throw things and hit things and _scream_ because—because it felt like he was suffocating, like he was drowning and nobody noticed. Nobody ever noticed…

But that was because everybody had their own problems, issues far greater than his own, and Stiles could hardly brush them off because he was wading his way through the thick waters of heartbreak, often getting stuck in the proverbial weeds that wound themselves around him and forced him to look whenever Lydia kissed Jackson or told him she loved him. And he couldn’t ask anyone to just stay with him for a while because he was so petrified of being alone, of lurching awake in the night from nightmares of his friends’ corpses and hollow eyes. He couldn’t tell anyone he was anything other than fine.

“Due to confidentiality, she didn’t tell me anything you’ve told her, so don’t worry about that,” the nurse continued, as calm as ever, and Stiles felt kind of pathetic that this was such a big deal to him when Nurse Darcy was acting like it was so commonplace. Stiles shouldn’t need counselling or therapy; he was probably the most boringly average, normal, most content person he knew. He didn’t have a relationship to have issues with, he had a father who loved him, and sometimes – sometimes he was actually needed. Granted, it was primarily just due to his research abilities, but still. Along with the irritation he felt whenever he received incessant calls or texts to find something out, unintentional gratefulness flooded his heart too, just because someone thought to ask _him_.

Which was pathetic.

“But she has suggested you seek further therapy, and after the undoubtedly traumatic incident you were just involved in, nobody would blame you for needing help.” Darcy smiled at him reassuringly, but all it did was make Stiles feel somewhat nauseous.

Swallowing his anxiety, Stiles just sighed and rolled his eyes. “With all due respect, Nurse, I didn’t really want to see the counsellor in the first place.” He shrugged, picking again at loose threads in the blanket. “I’m fine,” he said, meeting Nurse Darcy’s eyes and raising his eyebrows, like he couldn’t understand why anyone would think he’d be anything other than fine.

Darcy scrutinised him for just a moment before giving a small nod, which Stiles knew meant that he’d be taking it up with his dad. The thought made his stomach roll; he didn’t want his dad worrying about Stiles having a breakdown when he seemed to be close to having one himself. He hated upsetting his dad as much as he hated lying to him, but it seemed like all he ever did any more were those two things.

“Hey, look, I’m kind of tired,” he said, finally averting his gaze from Darcy, and instead staring intently at his hands as he tried to hold them steady.

“Of course,” said Darcy, smiling slightly. “I’ll let you get some rest.” With a nod, he left the room and, with him, so did Stiles’s façade. His sigh this time wasn’t one of annoyance, but pained helpless frustration, and he had to clench his eyes shut to hold back the tears that followed the stinging sensation. He felt his hands shaking and clenched the blankets between his hands, biting his lip hard to stop his breathing from escalating; he already felt like he could throw up at any time.

Part of him was unbelievably grateful that nobody could see him so close to breaking down. The bigger part of him was unbearably disappointed, and more alone than ever.

**x**

He heard his dad come in, but didn’t turn away from the window. He didn’t want to see the frustrated confusion and dizzying worry on his father’s face, knowing that he couldn’t tell him the truth. He didn’t want to keep lying to his dad, but that’s what they’d always done, even before Scott turned into a werewolf; they’d always stepped on eggshells around one another, dancing with words over topics they couldn’t bring themselves to discuss, and burying their true feelings beneath smiles and sarcasm.

“Stiles.”

He closed his eyes for a second, pursing his lips and breathing in deeply, before turning his head and groaning like he’d just woken up. “Dad?” He blinked slowly before raising a hand to feign rubbing sleep from his eye. “Mmn, Dad, can we not right now? I’m exhausted.”

“I’m not here to ask you for a statement. I’m too involved for that, Stiles. Another officer is going to do that tomorrow,” he explained curtly, obviously having noticed Stiles’s diversionary tactic. “But I – I still want to know what happened. I was… so scared, Stiles,” he forced out, choking on the word _scared_ and making Stiles feel even worse. His tongue felt like sawdust and his throat ached as he swallowed any words that bubbled to the surface. He couldn’t speak. He _couldn’t_. Even if he wanted to.

Dad exhaled shakily and rubbed his face, and kept his head buried in his hands. Stiles blinked rapidly and turned away again, hating that they could both sound his erratic heartbeat on the monitor. He wondered if it sounded this loud to werewolves.

“Stiles, whatever’s going on, I…” Dad faltered, obviously unsure of what to say. Neither of them ever did. They just – didn’t talk about feelings. Dad only brought stuff up when he was drunk, and Stiles wasn’t even sure if he remembered it or not. As for Stiles, he… he’d been saying he was fine since Mom died. Sometimes he just told himself his dad didn’t care. It scared him, because he’d always believed it, at least a little, ever since his dad was forced to raise him alone. But he told himself that so he wouldn’t hesitate whenever doing something dangerous, something that could make his dad worry, because God knows he always feels guilty and useless enough already. “Stiles,” Dad tried again, collecting himself after a moment, but Stiles didn’t look at him. “I won’t hate you. I might be angry, but that’s just because I care about you, son,” he said, voice hoarse and closer to tears than Stiles had heard him since Mom’s funeral.

“Dad, I’m _fine_ ,” he said strongly, somehow managing to sound exasperated despite his voice wavering. He didn’t even know why he was so insistent.

Dad looked furious one second, miserable the next, and then just tired and disappointed. Stiles knew then that they were done talking. Whenever they nearly opened up, they immediately closed off again, shutting and bolting their doors and obliterating the bridges, resuming the masquerade.

“All right, son,” said his dad, looking wearier than before. All thanks to Stiles. _Well done again, Stiles, you made another person miserable._ “I’ll let you get some sleep.” He reached out and touched his hand, lips twitching into an almost-smile, before it fell again. He pulled away, leaving Stiles alone and empty again. Despite feeling like he _had_ to say he was fine, like he _had_ to _be_ fine, he still sort of wished that his dad had pushed, had _made_ him talk. And maybe even hugged him.

His gaze drifted up to the ceiling and he flopped back against the pillows, bitter tears fighting their way to the surface, and he slammed his fist against the wall.

**x**

Derek hadn’t bothered to come in and brief him on what lie he had to tell to the officer who questioned him, which kind of pissed Stiles off. There was an underlying hurt, but it was easier to act on the anger. He’d been beaten up to get to Derek, even though Stiles had known it would have been really fucking stupid in the first place because Derek wouldn’t give a fuck if something happened to Stiles. Just because he was human, an easy target, a weak punching bag that couldn’t even stand up to an old man who probably had hip replacements – why go for him? Why go for someone who nobody would give a damn about? Gerard had hurt Stiles for nothing.

He pursed his lips and felt his teeth digging into his flesh, felt his blood pumping through his veins and vision blurring as fury coursed through him like an electric current. Growling in frustration behind his closed lips, he curled his hands into fists and hit at his legs, jolting at the pain in his broken leg but thriving on it a little, the dizzying throb propelling adrenaline through him as he punched, punched, punched—

He choked on his own breath when his hands stopped suddenly, caught in a vice grip that he could barely even move in. He realised then that he sounded like he was choking or sobbing instead of breathing, and no air was getting in his lungs, and his body was hurting so _badly_.

“Stiles!”

Arms enveloped him and, for a moment, he thought he was going to be strangled, but he already was—wasn’t he? What was going on? Why couldn’t he breathe?

“Stiles! Stiles, man, it’s me – Scott. It’s Scott. It’s gonna be okay, dude, calm down. It’s gonna be fine.”

Then he stopped breathing altogether, just shaking violently in the iron grip he was being held in, trying not to let the tears stinging his eyes overflow. He couldn’t cry. He hadn’t cried at his mom’s funeral in front of his dad or Scott or the nameless faces he couldn’t remember anymore, he hadn’t cried in front of his potential murderer when he thought Lydia would die, he—

“It’s okay, Stiles. I’m here.”

“You can get off-f,” he said, grimacing as his voice stuttered over a sob disguised as a gasp. “I’m fine, just – I was just…”

He expected Scott to just let go, to look sheepish and uncomfortable, to dismiss himself awkwardly and avoid him for a while until he was sure Stiles wouldn’t have a mental breakdown. He’d expect it, he wouldn’t be surprised, it wouldn’t matter ‘cause it’s happened before. It wouldn’t matter, like his birthday didn’t matter, like the anniversary of his mom’s death didn’t matter, like he and everything that came with him didn’t matter.

And Scott did pull away, and Stiles couldn’t believe he actually felt disappointed and betrayed and hurt although he’d anticipated it. “Sorry, man. I’m fine,” he said, gruffly brushing his hand under his nose and sniffing before clearing his throat.

Scott didn’t speak for a moment, just stared at him, a troubled frown darkening his features. “You’re not fine,” he said quietly, looking as guilty as Stiles felt.

Stiles blinked at him before forcing a smile and raising his eyebrows. “Don’t go all psych on me,” he said, giving a watery, congested laugh that made him wince. “Wow, whatever they’ve got me on is making me act way too much like someone on their time of the month.” He paused. “No offense.”

“Stiles,” Scott said, soft but firm, a tone he’d obviously adopted from his mom. Stiles used to be envious of their relationship—still did, a little, sometimes—but he knew that Scott missed his dad as much as Stiles missed his mom. “You’re my best friend.”

Stiles blinked quickly, licking his cracked lips and swallowing dryly. He’d imagined this before—entertained the idea of his best friend actually noticing something was wrong and talking to him and making him feel better, but… it. It was weird. In his fantasies, he knew what to say, he wasn’t crying, he wasn’t absolutely terrified and on the verge of breaking down.

“You can… talk to me, you know,” said Scott, and _Jesus_ , he had no idea how Stiles had _longed_ to hear those words. From _anyone_. Especially from Scott, though. He’d missed his best friend. He’d thought he’d kind of lost him a little bit and imagined they’d drift apart, lead different lives, while Stiles remained on the sidelines, trying and failing to help.

Stiles shifted awkwardly, lips twitching into a sort-of-smile. “Thanks.”

“I’m serious. I mean it,” Scott insisted, and he looked serious. Stiles felt uncomfortable and nervous and—God, he didn’t know what he was feeling.

“Same here,” he returned thickly, clearing his throat again. “Um—”

“Your dad said you weren’t talking. He’s really worried, Stiles.” Scott hadn’t stopped frowning and still looked concerned, but Stiles knew Scott didn’t want to talk about this. He had bigger problems.

“I can’t really tell him all the stuff we’re involved in, dude,” Stiles said, giving him a look and laughing once – a cold, derisive sound that made Scott’s brows lower further. “Somehow I don’t think any level-headed officer would believe me if I told them I was abducted by my best friend’s girlfriend’s psycho grandfather – for a second time – because he wanted to piss off the alpha of a pack of werewolves.” He shook his head with a self-deprecating smirk.

“He wanted to make Derek mad?” Scott tilted his head, expression not changing in the slightest. Since when had Scott adopted a mini Derek frown?

“Yeah,” Stiles snorted, looking down. “Bad move, huh? Gerard’s obviously not so much a mastermind as he is a master psycho.” Wow, that was a bad insult from him, but he really didn’t want to put much thought into Gerard. He’d probably have to eventually though, he realised with more resignation than horror.

Scott looked slightly confused. “Yeah, it was a bad move,” he agreed, scrutinising Stiles as he lowered his gaze and deflated somewhat, “because Derek is pissed.”

Stiles’s gaze shot up to meet Scott’s and his brows knitted together. “Uh, Derek’s always pissed off, dude. It’s kind of his thing.”

Scott shook his head. “No, Stiles – he’s _really_ pissed off,” he said. “He was already thinking of how to find and kill Gerard, and now we know where he’s hiding… We had to stop him from charging off. He nearly transformed and just…” Scott raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Stiles, who was just… perplexed.

“ _Obviously_ he’ll be pissed at Gerard,” Stiles said. It was a given, wasn’t it? “The guy tried to kill him and then become a werewolf and didn’t have the good grace to just fucking give up after spewing… _that_. He’s the king of sore losers, seriously. Worse than Jackson.” He scoffed, twiddling his thumbs intently. It was disconcerting how easy acting normal came to him, how pretending to be okay was second nature. He’d almost had a panic attack and Scott had seen, and now they were discussing all this supernatural stuff like Stiles had woken up asking for curly fries instead of nearly crying.

Realising Scott hadn’t responded, he finally stopped picking at his nails and looked up to see his best friend frowning at him again. It was weird whenever Scott went silent. So the guy wasn’t academically brilliant. That didn’t mean he wasn’t innovative and observant.

“Stiles—”he began, and stopped abruptly, uncertain. He gritted his teeth and sighed.

“D’you mind if I get some sleep now?” Stiles said before Scott spoke again. He wondered how many times he could use sleeping as an excuse not to talk. Everyone seemed awkward and emotionally disturbed enough to accept the diversion and allow him to put a stop to any conversation involving feelings or the truth.

Scott still seemed reluctant, edgy, and tense, but he obviously wasn’t sure how to handle this either. Nobody really dealt with sad Stiles; he was supposed to be a sarcastic, witty, omnipresent annoyance that got in the way a lot but sometimes spouted relatively helpful words. He wasn’t meant to be a lost, scared, depressed kid.

And he didn’t want to be, either. Couldn’t let himself be.

“Sure,” Scott finally said, and Stiles was annoyed at himself at the feeling of disappointment that came with the relief. “I’ll see you soon.” He touched Stiles’s shoulder, the smallest of pats that lingered as if the touch could convey his words, and then he was gone.

Stiles stared up at the ceiling, swallowing painfully as the emotions he’d blocked around company resurfaced. He sniffed and blinked, trying to hold everything back, and clutched onto the sheets like they could anchor him.

 _Stop feeling like this_ , he told himself, clenching his eyes shut. _Stop fucking feeling like this._


	3. Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He almost wanted to cry, overwhelmed that – that Danny had noticed something was wrong, asked if he was okay, and now Scott was, he was actually standing up for him and was there.
> 
> But he didn’t, he wouldn’t, and he brushed away Scott’s arm and told him not to be so sappy because he made Stiles feel less like his best friend and more like a damsel in distress.

Everything seemed to blur together.

Time dragged on, painfully slow and agonisingly dull, yet somehow a few months had gone by during which he’d been questioned by officers several times, subjected to betrayed and worried looks from his dad damn near constantly, forced to endure more of Scott’s loneliness without Allison to hold onto all the time now. Scott had told him he’d understood, that he wanted to give her space, and that he was okay with it, but he felt like a part of him was far away, was with her, and he was never complete without her around.

Part of Stiles was envious, admittedly. He wanted to have someone who’d long to be with him too, but he knew that the person he’d spent a large portion of his life pining over was more unattainable than ever now. He knew he’d have to force himself to move on, because seriously. Yeah, Lydia didn’t want him; she was in love with Jackson, and he couldn’t change that. He… wasn’t good for her, either. Probably. As much as he’d shower her with affection and always treat her like a freaking – a goddess, or something, that wasn’t good for her. She has to be treated like she’s amazing by whoever she chooses to be with, but she should also be treated like a human being. After all the time Stiles had admired her from afar and created fantasies in his head about what they could be, he didn’t think he’d be able to give that to her, not really.

And after having – after he’d shouted at her, he sort of realised, at least a little bit, that they couldn’t work. He – he loved her – had loved her, still maybe did, because it’s not so easy to let go of someone who you thought you were in love with forever. He loved her because she was intelligent; she was popular and brash and quite, uh, icy and mean sometimes, a lot, but she was smart in so many ways, and he wanted to be like that, wanted to be able to have intellectual conversations with her casually, be able to sit down next to her without people staring and guffawing, without her sneering and asking what the hell he thought he was doing.

But he realised now, he realised that he’d also loved her for _himself_.

After losing his mom, he knew he couldn’t show it. He had to be strong because he knew his dad still got drunk to forget, still drove towards the cemetery only to swerve around because he couldn’t, still had her picture in his wallet but never looked at it when he thought Stiles wasn’t there. So he sort of clung to anything to help him grow up, to help him grow into someone strong enough to help his dad move on, and he wasn’t sure where the line between admiration for Lydia became something he pushed, let fester into obsession to grow into someone… normal. Helpful.

He’d told her he couldn’t lose her because he wouldn’t know what _he_ ’d do. And sure, he knew that it was true; putting yourself in danger would impact everyone around you, would scare and distress everyone who cared about you, but in that moment – when he’d been shouting, close to crying because all of these forgotten feelings were bubbling to the surface like a volcano that he’d thought was dormant. He’d been saying it to her, but was thinking about so many people as he did, even though it was mostly out of selfishness; _he_ didn’t want to lose anyone else, _he_ couldn’t deal with the pain again. When really, in that moment, if he’d truly loved her, was in love with her unselfishly and unconditionally, he probably would have just agreed to help her no matter what.

Maybe.

He didn’t know how to love someone properly, didn’t know the semantics. But what he did know was that he’d screwed it up – as always – and that Lydia Martin was never going to be his future wife, or future girlfriend. Prospective friend, sure, definitely, he hoped – just, he’d probably always feel slightly awkward around her, like a lingering disappointment that wouldn’t fully dissipate, but he wouldn’t show it.

And it was ridiculous, really, that he was thinking about his nonexistent love life after having been kidnapped and tortured – again – and things probably wouldn’t change any time soon. He’d go through more existential crises than a teenager should, he’d feel guilty enough to want to puke whenever he came home and lied to his dad about what he’d been doing, he’d feel alone and forgotten whenever he’d see Scott gazing ruefully at Allison, Danny pat Jackson comfortingly at the back and then exchange reassuring grins, see Scott’s mom talk to Scott and accept him while his dad skirted around the issue and took later shifts…

And he’d probably have to see the counsellor, and maybe people would tell him to seek out professionals outside of school, but then maybe not because they’d all be so wrapped up in their own problems that Stiles would be an afterthought.

Things would go right back to normal, even though he’d thought he was going to die not long ago.

It kind of felt like he was dying. Like he was drowning, paralysed and sinking and unable to even try to swim to the surface, and his friends were floating in boats or holding each other above water, not even looking down as he screamed for help and water slipped through his lips and choked him—

“Jesus,” he said out loud, hoping the noise would bring him out of his stupor, and he rubbed his face furiously because it wasn’t as obvious as rubbing his eyes.

His arm was still bandaged, but no longer in a sling, although sparks of pain zipped through like lightning bolts whenever he moved awkwardly, and shrugging caused his shoulder to feel like it was dislocating all over again. He had a crutch, but it was hard to use, although he had gotten slightly excited at the prospect of using crutches again since that time he’d fallen out of a tree.

And he was going to school tomorrow, starting his senior year, and for most people it’d be a big deal. They’d be realising how they had one year left of high school and then they’d be going to college, pursuing a career, becoming a legal adult and finding their way in life instead of finding their place in school. But for him, it was a passing thought, buried amidst the worries of the Argents and the alpha pack and everyone’s wellbeing.

He’d be lying if he said he expected anything to change. This only affected him, this was his problem, and nobody else was impacted by it.

His dad had drove him home from the hospital a month ago, silent and stone-faced, and Stiles wondered if he was thinking about how much his stupid kid was screwing up his life. He pursed his lips, not daring to glance at his dad, and wondered if he should say something that sounded normal, to ease the tension or make his dad worry less, but his throat felt like it was full of sawdust.

The drive was as awkward as it was quiet, but Stiles could feel his heart beating as fast as a petrified rabbit surrounded by foxes. Huh, even in his own mind, he was always the prey. That really didn’t do much for his self-esteem.

They pulled up to their house, but Stiles had barely noticed the scenery, too immersed within his own thoughts. His dad slammed his hands on the wheel, and Stiles jerked his head towards him, staring at his dad impassively even as his heart felt like it would escape from his ribcage.

“Stiles,” Dad had said, still looking out the window instead of at his son. “I—” He closed his eyes, sighing angrily, and then just shook his head, ripping his keys out and rubbing his temple. “Go get some rest.”

They never talked about anything.

“Sure, Dad,” he’d said, voice barely a whisper, and he didn’t even fumble or stagger in his haste to get out. He walked through the house in a daze, feeling like deadweight as he ascended the stairs. He didn’t know why he felt so far away when he wasn’t even thinking about anything. His mind was completely blank and all he could hear was white noise.

As he grasped the doorknob, he briefly entertained the possibility of Derek slamming him against the wall and demanding to know what happened. After waiting for a heartbeat, he twisted the door open, and was greeted with the sound of his clock ticking in the empty room. He leaned back against the door, hearing it click shut, and closed his eyes to ward off the immense disappointment. He shouldn’t be, though – the others had suffered through worse than he had, and they did it alone.

Even though they didn’t have to, even though it made Stiles so _angry_ that they thought they did.

He limped to his bed and collapsed onto it, feeling for his phone and staring solemnly at the screen.

_Inbox empty._

He hadn’t really expected otherwise.

And even now, a month later, he was sitting alone in his room, phone utterly devoid of any messages, of any sign that somebody gave a shit.

He sort of wished he didn’t care. He hated it, the vulnerability that came with caring a hell of a lot more about others than they did about him. But he always had, hadn’t he?

He always had.

**x.**

It was with anxious expectancy and a heavy heart that Stiles arrived to school with. His dad had dropped him off, insisted upon it, which made Stiles more touched than he should’ve been at such a simple parental gesture. He didn’t show it, of course, just rolled his eyes and told his dad to stop worrying, he was _fine_ , okay?

But despite telling his dad _and_ himself that, he still adjusted his bag’s strap six times, ran his hand through his hair twice – and wow, it was growing a little, he’d totally forgotten to buzz it with everything going on – and licked his lips enough for them to get slightly chapped in the crisp autumn air.

When Scott looked up from his phone, Stiles sort of expected him to look right through Stiles, search for Allison in the crowd, and he actually felt his heartbeat escalate when his best friend’s eyes widened and he leapt up upon seeing Stiles. Scott jogged towards him and grabbed his shoulder, looking him in the eye, and said, “Stiles, it’s good to see you.”

He felt like an idiot, more of an idiot than when he shouted at Lydia, more of an idiot than when he admitted he had a _thing_ with blood when Derek told him to chop his arm off, more of an idiot than when he’d just stood there during lacrosse, because suddenly he wanted to _hug_ Scott. And punch him at the same time. Ask him why he’d forgotten Stiles, tell him he was sorry for having such low expectations of him, tell him he missed him and ask if he could hit him again without breaking his own fist.

There was so much he wanted to say, but instead he just gave a small twitch of the lips, patted Scott’s shoulder too, and said, “Good to see you too, buddy.”

And then they were talking like nothing had happened.

He felt somewhat glad that they could do that, lapse into familiar territory without it feeling forced, but he also kind of wished he could talk to his own best friend, could just let everything he bottled up spill out.

But it would be awkward and stupid because Scott had bigger problems than Stiles did, and he’d feel kind of like an attention seeker if he complained about a few broken bones and losing someone who had never been his in the first place. So he said nothing of his lingering despondency, nothing of the heaviness on his heart, and asked Scott if he wanted to practice lacrosse together after school. Sans werewolf powers, cheater.

He felt pathetic that he actually felt ecstatic when Scott agreed.

**x.**

“Hey, Danny,” he said, hoping he sounded casual, which seemed to be harder and harder to do recently.

Danny seemed to steel himself, inhaling slowly like he had to make himself be calm before talking to Stiles. _Kind_ of insulting, but admittedly Stiles had been pretty annoying to him. A lot.

“What,” he said, and despite his yoga technique he still sounded kind of pissed already. Ouch.

“Uh,” said Stiles, faltering, because he’d never been deterred by Danny’s reproachful irritation before. He knew the guy didn’t hate him, but Stiles was a sort of irksome thorn in his side who never really shut up, and used him for research purposes without explanation, and his sudden self-esteem issues were making this really hard. “I, uh. Have you ever – um, liked someone?” he asked, and immediately wanted to hit himself for his awkwardness, but instead he just let his eyebrows shoot up and lips curve into a thin smile when Danny stared at him blankly.

“Can we not do the gay thing?” said Danny irritably, turning again.

“No, I – jeez, Danny, I know I don’t exactly have the greatest track record, but I’m just…” Just what? Just trying to get over a girl he’s had a crush on forever, just trying to figure out if he’d loved her or loved the idea of her, just trying to understand why he’d never really had feelings for any other girl?

Danny was looking at him when he looked up, quiet and scrutinising, and Stiles shook his head quickly.

“Doesn’t matter, not important. D’you know the answer to question five?”

Danny glanced less than surreptitiously at Stiles’s paper and raised an eyebrow. “You’ve answered it. And six, and seven,” he said.

Stiles blinked and looked down, laughing somewhat hysterically and shaking his head. “Oh, what d’you know? Guess studying has its merits.” He grinned weakly.

“I’ve liked a couple of guys,” said Danny slowly, brows twitching as he thought of them. Ah, so, obviously they hadn’t worked out well. “One turned out to be a homophobic ‘Nice Guy’ who tried to defend his actions by saying he had nothing wrong with gays, as long as they kept it private, but he wouldn’t mind seeing two hot girls making out in front of him,” he said conversationally, but didn’t bother to hide the bitterness in his tone. “The other…” He made a face, troubled and angry. “Well, my crush on him didn’t last that long. We flirted, I thought he was cute, and then I found out he was somewhat psychopathic.” He shrugged.

Stiles managed a small smile, not sure what fuelled it. He’d ran into a few psychopaths himself, what a small world. “Sorry to hear it,” he said, and then sighed, sinking in his seat. “Love in Beacon Hills is about as elusive as an Egyptian god card.”

Danny stared at him, raising his eyebrows. “Especially when you say things like that,” he said, but smiled when Stiles chuckled. “Why d’you ask anyway?” He sounded honestly curious and somewhat concerned, but Stiles brushed off the suspicion in his voice.

He shrugged, looking down at his hands as he toyed with his chewed up pencil. “Trying to get over someone. Wondered how long it’d take and what’d hurry it along. Romcoms are useless; they make me want to puke, and they lie. Hot chocolate doesn’t do anything but burn my tongue and make me want more sugar, which is a very bad idea.” He made a face, and so did Danny at the thought of a hyperactive Stiles sitting behind him.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, but Stiles didn’t seem surprised by the answer. “I guess you’ve just gotta give it time. It’s cliché, but it’s all I’ve got.” He shook his head. “And I think hot chocolate’s disgusting.”

Stiles gawked at him. “Wow,” he said, looking amazed. “There’s something wrong with you, dude.”

Danny smirked a little. Of course Stiles would think he was weird for his taste in food or drink, unlike most people who met him and judged his personality entirely upon his sexuality. Most people were openminded, didn’t give a damn, but sometimes just didn’t even think twice about the stereotypes and assumed he’d be the Gay Best Friend who’d go shopping and watch The Notebook just to gush over the guy in it. And he always sort of wanted to punch people when they introduced him as their “gay friend”. He was their friend, and he was gay, but he didn’t introduce people as his straight friends. It was just stupid.

And then there was Stiles, who’d probably think of him as the weird guy who hated hot chocolate.

“So,” he said conversationally, because this lesson was dead and Stiles was unnervingly quiet right now, staring at his pencil like it held the answers to the universe. “Lydia Martin, right? Never thought your obsession would end.”

Stiles blinked up at him and swallowed, before giving a strange sort of smile that made Danny somewhat uncomfortable. It seemed forced, so disconcertingly forced, and instead of receiving an immediate quip Stiles just sat in silence for a long moment. Then he wiped a hand across his face and said, “Well, I’ve gotta grow up sometime.”

He felt there was more to what was going on that what Stiles was saying, but they weren’t exactly friends and he didn’t know if Stiles wanted to talk about it. So instead of asking what was going on with him, he asked casually, “Have anyone else in mind?”

Stiles was looking at him, wide-eyed in astonishment for a moment, before regarding him like some sort of science experiment gone wrong. “Y’know, amidst all the murders and not-relationship problems, I’ve really not been looking.” He shrugged. “How about you?”

It was a deflection, obviously, and Danny felt kind of concerned for Stiles now. “Nah, same here really,” he agreed, leaning back after glancing scarcely at the teacher, who seemed to be ignoring the chattering students.

Stiles rubbed his nose, more out of habit of moving his hands than necessity, and wondered what to say next since Danny seemed to be acknowledging him right now without being annoyed. He felt kind of relieved. He didn’t want the nicest guy in school to think of Stiles as a pain in the ass, even if it was true. “You thought about it?”

Danny shrugged again, playing with his own pencil now. “Yeah,” he said, like it was obvious. “My best friend has a girlfriend,” he said, and Stiles felt his insides scrunch up painfully at the reminder, and at the sad way Danny looked at him. “He’s with her. A lot. He doesn’t forget me or anything, but just… we don’t spend as much time together as we used to.” He inclined his head and made an ‘oh well’ face, dismissing it.

Stiles nodded. “I get that,” he said, and he did, although now that Scott and Allison were… taking a break, or something, who knows, maybe they’d have more time together to be friends again. “Well, Danny ol’ boy, I guess we’re in the same boat here.”

“Guess so,” said Danny, smirking a little.

The bell rang and he startled. Time had gone by pretty fast talking to Stiles, and he didn’t actually want to stop talking to him. Even though they weren’t close, something seemed to be up with Stiles. Teenage heartbreak was terrible enough, but there seemed to be deeper things lurking beneath the surface, shown through slight cracks in Stiles’s armour when he looked irrefutably sad when he thought nobody was looking, and when his dry sarcasm was belied by the way he held himself like he had too much weighing him down. Danny was relatively sure that Stiles himself didn’t notice the subtle ways he showed that something was wrong, like he was asking for someone to notice what was going on but he couldn’t put into words and he was hoping someone would just _realise_ and ask.

“Hey, d’you want to sit with me at lunch?” he asked, making it sound like he asked it on a whim, although to be fair he never really thought he’d actually voluntarily ask Stiles Stilinski to spend time with him.

“Um,” Stiles said, looking surprised, and Danny himself was caught off guard by the slight frown that made Stiles look older and tired. “It’s fine, I’ve got—”

“It’s okay,” said Danny carefully, wondering if Stiles was only reluctant because he didn’t want to bother him or something. Because usually, Stiles wouldn’t worry about bothering him, never seemed repentant over annoying him, so seeing him falter and look so unnerved seemed wrong. “I’m pretty sure Jackson and Lydia are just going to be trying to send telepathic love messages with their eyes, and I don’t really want to have to throw up my lunch. I kind of like ham.”

Stiles hesitated a moment longer before giving a quirk of the lips and a nod. “Sure. Great,” he said, stuffing his things into his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, looking anywhere but at Danny. “But ham’s kind of gross, dude.”

“There’s something wrong with you, Stilinski,” he joked, bumping his shoulder slightly, and Stiles’s smile seemed ever so slightly less twisted and sad and _wrong_ now.

Slightly.

**x.**

If Danny had been suspicious before, he was certain now that something was really, really wrong with Stiles.

When Scott slid into the seat beside him and their arms brushed, Stiles said something about not approaching like a silent creeper in the night, using his words to mask the way he seemed to jolt at their shoulders brushing, and he shuffled a few inches away from Scott. Initially, while he was talking and Scott’s and Danny’s attention was focused on him, he jammed his food into his mouth and talked messily around it, but as soon as their attention was diverted he carefully put down his food and sort of just stared at it. He looked kind of like he was going to be sick.

“You okay, Stiles?” Danny asked quietly. Scott seemed to hear even though he’d said it softly within the bustling walls of the cafeteria, and frowned worriedly as he looked at his friend.

“Something wrong?” he added, and Danny was relieved to see Stiles’s best friend did care about him and wasn’t forgetting to check on him, but the relief soon faded back into concern when Stiles looked at them both like they were insane or something.

“Uh, yeah?” he said, like it should’ve been obvious, and shook his head as he raised his eyebrows. “Kind of sucks that it’s our final year here, but I guess everyone’s thinking about that.”

Danny half expected Scott to just shrug and nod and talk about something else, and Stiles seemed to anticipate both of them doing that, but Scott’s frown deepened and he said, “Are you sure? I mean, obviously with your injuries… and your dad…” he said quietly, and Danny barely heard it. He probably wasn’t meant to either. He was going to excuse himself to give them a moment to talk, but then –

“Injuries? Dude, these are nothing. I’ve gotten worse during lacrosse.” He didn’t acknowledge Scott’s mention of his dad at all, and it was obviously deliberate. Scott seemed more concerned now than before. “You still in for practice after school?” Stiles asked, throwing their worry for him away as he sipped his drink eagerly, like it could give him time to think about how to get them to stop asking after him.

“Yeah,” said Scott, still frowning at his best friend but not pushing.

Danny glanced at Stiles, whose shoulders seemed to fall in both reprieve and disappointment, and wondered just how Stiles looked so… _sad_ , and nobody had noticed…

**x.**

When Stiles arrived to Chemistry, he felt the familiar dread return at the sight of Mr. Harris, and along with that an odd numbing contentment that he could still get distressed over normal things and not just supernatural, life-threatening things.

“Ah, it seems I’ll be teaching you again, Stilinski,” he said as soon as he saw Stiles limp over to a seat. “Someone’s obviously punishing me.”

Stiles didn’t speak. He stared blankly at Mr. Harris, hands folded on the table and mouth downturned, but he was frowning; he was just looking, seemingly impassive, even as inside he could feel the bitter anger at how unjustly the man treated him. He wanted to scream and throw things and ask why everyone thought it was _okay_ to treat Stiles like he was dirt on their shoe, like it was _okay_ to hurt him and look at him like he was useless or stupid, like he wasn’t longing to punch them all in the face _all_ the time because he was so _frustrated_ and upset and nobody gave a _fuck_.

“Not talking back, Stilinski?” Mr. Harris raised his eyebrows, leaning forwards with a predatory smirk that belied the frosty hatred in his eyes. “Finally come to your senses, or did the system just break you?”

“Lay off, Mr. Harris,” Scott suddenly said, and Stiles started, eyes widening as he jerked up to see Scott right beside him, glaring heatedly at their teacher like he was scum. “Stiles hasn’t done anything wrong.”

This was the Scott he’d missed for so long; the one who’d stood up for him whenever, even when he didn’t have to, and it felt like hearing from a friend who’d been absent and far away for so long. Which was stupid, ‘cause Scott was right here, and Stiles had been with him throughout everything.

Just – Scott hadn’t realised that.

He missed the exchange between Scott and Mr. Harris, but he was kind of thankful that he drowned out any insults directed at him and his ineptitude, and even more grateful for the protective arm thrown around his shoulders.

He almost wanted to cry, overwhelmed that – that Danny had noticed something was wrong, _asked_ if he was _okay_ , and now Scott was, he was actually _standing up for him_ and was _there_.

But he didn’t, he wouldn’t, and he brushed away Scott’s arm and told him not to be so sappy because he made Stiles feel less like his best friend and more like a damsel in distress.

When Scott smiled sadly and said, “You are my best friend, of course I’m gonna stand up for you, man,” Stiles really did have to look away unless he wanted to have a breakdown in front of the class.

**x.**

Danny ended up joining them for lacrosse practice, oddly enough, and while Stiles was grateful that it was harder for Scott to cheat, he was also worried that Danny would still ask if something was up, would know something was wrong, would make Scott more suspicious than before.

It was actually pretty fun, and he laughed and joked around with them, and things felt somewhat normal. And that’s what scared him most – it was all great, and he should feel happy that he’s spending time with Scott again, and that Danny seems to like him now, but that strange feeling that had been there, festering for so long, it was still there, and felt bigger and closer to the surface. It was like – it was like some sort of shadow right behind him that kept whispering things in his ear, telling him everyone would forget him, that he’s useless, that his dad can’t stand him, that Lydia’s not the only one who’ll never love him—

But that sort of thing doesn’t exist, it’s just him in all his awkward, clumsy glory, so he should be able to banter about their lacrosse skills without thinking that they’re serious, that Scott would rather have Danny as a best friend, because anyone would, and that Danny’s only here because of Scott, because Stiles has always been the sidekick, even though it had been Stiles that Danny had asked to sit with at lunch.

He felt so stupid, so pathetic, and didn’t even _know_ why.

So when Scott asked if something was wrong on the way home again, he said no because it was easier than trying to explain that he didn’t know what was wrong, he was just… sad.

**x.**

And then he felt like breaking down for an entirely different reason when he got home and his dad said Nurse Darcy had given him the number of a psychiatrist, all the while not even able to look at his son.

Stiles wanted to ask _why won’t you look at me, do you still not trust me, are you still angry, would you rather I died instead of mom—?_

But instead he just rolled his eyes and sighed like this was all ridiculous and blown out of proportion, and said, “Dad, really, I don’t need to see a shrink, I’m f—”

“Stiles,” his dad interrupted, choking on his name, and Stiles blinked rapidly to hold back the stinging in his eyes. Breathing hurt and his heart was going into overdrive and he felt pins and needles in his hands that had been clenched into fists for fifteen minutes now. “Son, this is hard enough for me, okay? Just, if you need help, and you – you can’t talk to me, please, just… _get help_.”

“Dad…” he whispered, hating himself for once again being the one to make his dad sound so miserable. It was his fault, it was always his fault, he was sorry, but saying that would make it worse—

“You have an appointment tomorrow morning,” his dad said like he hadn’t spoken, still not looking at him, and Stiles felt like screaming again. “I can’t drop you off, I have an early shift—”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, holding back a derisive snort or a hysterical giggle, because he was scared he’d just start sobbing. “I get it.”

Dad finally looked at him, exhausted and sad and—

 _Disappointed and disgusted and suspicious_ , Stiles’s mind supplied helpfully, and he had to turn away and run his hands through his short hair to stop himself from hitting something.

“Son—”

“It’s fine,” he said brusquely, sounding casual, sounding like he was reassuring his dad for burning the turkey on Thanksgiving and ending up taking them to a diner where they ate curly fries and pretended Mom’s lack of presence didn’t make everything taste of cardboard, trying not to sound like he was perturbed that his dad was obviously avoiding him because he thought Stiles was caught up in something illegal, or he was crazy, or a sociopath or something. He had to stop thinking, his brain was going into overdrive, and his heart felt like it was going to escape his ribcage. “I’m gonna go to bed, I’m beat.”

And it wasn’t a lie, but his dad looked at him like it was.

**x.**

It was two thirty in the morning when he heard his window rattle, and he dazedly turned away from his laptop to see Derek standing there, his seemingly permanent glare in place as he stared at Stiles.

He shut off his laptop; he hadn’t _done_ anything in _Guild Wars_ even though he’d been looking forward to it for _months_ , because he couldn’t concentrate no matter what.

“Long time no see,” he said, surprising himself at how acidic the words sounded.

Derek’s brows rose minutely before dipping deeper than before, and he approached Stiles, all noisy leather and quiet growl rippling in his throat, and leaned over Stiles. He felt his heart stop for a second before beating faster, but only stared at him. He felt exposed, being stared at so closely, Derek’s human-coloured eyes boring into his own, and he didn’t mean to say anything, but—

“You never visited me.”

Derek blinked once, still looking pissed, and then shook his head. “Why would I?”

Stiles laughed. It was a strange, broken, derisive noise that even startled Derek. “Yeah,” he agreed with feigned congeniality, even as he spat the word. “Why would you? Why would you visit the guy who was beat up to get to you?” He snorted, twisting his chair around after Derek’s grip had slackened. He didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to see how little yet another person cared, how there was no trust at all because _nobody_ trusted him anymore, no matter how many times he saved their life. “It was stupid for Gerard to do it in the first place. I mean, when he did it for Scott’s benefit, I thought, wow, this sucks, why does this even happen to me, why am I the Neville Longbottom of this story anyway? But I did kind of think Scott would care. A little. Because he’s my best friend,” he spat, sounding absolutely furious, his words dripping with poison, even as his body felt absolutely numb. But his pulse was racing and he felt dizzy with emotion and felt all of his thoughts trying to escape his mouth at the same time. “But _you_? Hurting me to get to you? If Scott didn’t give a shit, why the _hell_ would you? Why the _fuck_ would anyone give a _shit_ about the useless human sidekick getting kidnapped and beaten and s-s—”

He couldn’t breathe properly, but he could hear himself, gasping in awful, _disgusting_ spurts like he was choking, heart hammering in his chest as his nails dug into his own arms because he couldn’t deal with this _agony_ that was making him break down in front of Derek _fucking_ Hale, of all people, and he’d rather feel his broken leg or dislocated shoulder than this crippling sadness. God, he couldn’t breathe—

“Stiles!”

His name sounded so far away, but suddenly the world was spinning and then he saw blackness, but he wasn’t unconscious because he was still hyperventilating and hurting, and he couldn’t pass out because Derek would never stop taking the piss out of him for fainting due to a stupid panic attack over _nothing_.

“Stiles – Jesus, Stiles, _breathe_.”

Derek actually sounded calm, which weirded him out a little because he’d expected him to be disturbed by the emotions rolling off of Stiles in desperate waves, but he was kneeling before him, he could see him now, and he was holding Stiles’s arms so he couldn’t dig his nails in his own arms anymore.

“Breathe, you – Stiles.”

He wasn’t shouting, and although he was glaring, he didn’t sound angry, he sounded calm, if unnerved, but his grip on Stiles’s arms didn’t hurt and somehow that made Stiles nervous. He jerked in his chair, writhing and trying to make Derek clutch his arms tighter, dig his claws in, but he didn’t. He heard a low whine and was disturbed before realising that it was him, and then he gasped again, the sound awful and loud in the silence of his room, and he hated himself for showing this weakness in front of a werewolf – an alpha who’d gone through so much more than Stiles ever would and still held it together. Sort of.

At least he didn’t cry over it like a pathetic little worthless piece of shi—

“Stiles, just breathe, come _on_.” He sounded somewhat impatient, and Stiles felt guilty and humiliated, which only made him want to cry more, but he forced himself to breathe deeply, close his eyes and pretend nobody was seeing him like this, but all that did was let a sob escape, so he looked at Derek and told himself he had to hold it together because – because—

Damn it, he knew that there was a reason, but he couldn’t think of anything except how _stupid_ he was.

“I’m fine,” he said, voice breaking, and tried to yank his hands back.

Derek scowled at him, grip unrelenting but disconcertingly _not_ painful and actually – gentle. “You’re lying.”

“It’s become somewhat of a necessary talent to have when your best friend’s a werewolf and you nearly get killed at least once a week.” He didn’t realise he was chewing on his lip until a spark of pain made him jump, and he tasted blood in his mouth.

“Stop it,” Derek snarled, and Stiles glared back.

“Look – I,” he said, because what was he going to say? Thanks for not letting me claw at my own arms while I sob and hyperventilate at you for no good reason? “Just… thanks. For – you know. I’m good now.” Derek stared, unimpressed. “I can cope, I always do, so I’m – I’ll be fine, it’s okay.” He wasn’t even sure who he was reassuring anymore. “You can let go of me now.”

Derek jerked his hands back as if burned, and of course he would, nobody would want to touch Stiles, not when even his dad couldn’t bear to look at him.

“Did you need information or something?” he asked indifferently, like he wasn’t still trembling and his face was red and blotchy.

“You’re shaking,” said Derek.

“Not a helpful response. Besides that, yeah, it’s autumn and you decided to leave my window open, and I dress like a sloppy teenager who doesn’t take the weather into consideration.” He pointedly didn’t look at Derek, but his flesh crawled and tingled simultaneously when he felt Derek’s eyes on his face. “So, what’s it now? Alpha packs, vengeful fairies, angry leprechauns?”

“I came to see if you were okay,” said Derek slowly, like each word hurt him to say.

Stiles stared at him now, honestly astonished, wondering why Derek would check on _him_ , why he’d even _care_ if _Stiles_ was okay.

“Well,” he said, voice slightly hoarse, and he cleared his throat. “I guess my performance just now gave you your answer.”

“Leprechauns and fairies don’t exist,” was all Derek said a long moment later.

“What a relief, it’s just werewolves with bloodlust and paralysis-inducing lizards exist, thank god for that.”

Derek huffed an irritated breath from his nose, and he probably would’ve shoved Stiles against a wall had he not been injured, but instead he just glared at him and clenched his jaw. He didn’t know what to say, how to help, didn’t know how to make someone feel better. It was a miracle Stiles had stopped hyperventilating, because as calm as he’d sounded, he had no idea what to do. But clearly, Stiles was not okay, not at all, but it didn’t seem to be all because of Gerard Argent’s handiwork. But Derek just – didn’t _do_ talking, didn’t do feelings, and didn’t know what to do or what to say. It was somewhat infuriating, when he wanted to tell Stiles that being human didn’t necessarily equate to being weak – he’d been weak too, was right now. He wanted to say Stiles wasn’t useless to anyone, had helped everyone, even Derek, who didn’t even trust him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he said, “We’re planning on taking out Gerard.”

Stiles’s face went blank for two seconds before he looked as pissed off as Derek felt. “You don’t know what he’s capable of after – after he survived all that, and now he’s going to be angrier than ever—”

“He hurt – an innocent bystander.” God, he’d nearly said _he hurt you_ , which made it sound like he cared about the kid – who wasn’t even part of his pack, he was part of Scott’s, the idiot who’d betrayed him and refused to join Derek because of morals that wouldn’t help anyone survive.

“An innocent by – really?” He shook his head, narrowing his eyes and glaring. “I’ve been a part of this since Scott became a werewolf. I’ve saved your ass a few times too, so to him? I’m not an innocent bystander, I’m an accomplice, I’m against him. Besides, Gerard doesn’t give a damn who’s innocent and who’s not. It’s all about him, all about surviving. He doesn’t even – he said he’d kill his own _son_ to live. I’m about as involved in this as he is a giant bag of dicks.”

“Which is why we’re going to kill him,” said Derek, and then frowned at Stiles. “He’s a what?”

“Never mind,” Stiles said impatiently, like he’d said something _normal_ and Derek was weird for pointing it out. “Don’t just charge in without a plan. The alpha pack’s expanding territory, right? They’ve declared war. Gerard probably knows. He knows there are more werewolves lurking around, wanting to kill you, and he wasn’t above working with Scott to get what he wanted, so what’s to stop him from getting their help to hurt you?” He glared, throwing his hands up. “You think Scott’s a dumbass, but you don’t _think_ , Derek!”

“What do you propose I do?” Derek snarled, furious and defensive because he knew Stiles was right, but he wanted to rip out Gerard’s throat and strew his carcass around the forest. “Sit here and let him hurt more people?”

“That’ll happen anyway if you don’t plan,” Stiles snapped, and then sagged in his chair, rubbing his temples. “Derek, Jesus Christ, just – don’t rush in there, okay? You’ll endanger your pack, you’ll endanger yourself, and – and me and Scott’ll probably have to swoop in and try to save you again.”

Derek growled, the sound rumbling in the room, and he heard Stiles’s heart speed up at the sound, but only slightly, because it had been pumping disconcertingly fast for a while now. “I’m an alpha—”

“Derek,” said Stiles, giving him a look. He wasn’t glaring now, he was too tired, exhaustion radiating off of him, along with pure misery that he’d noticed before he’d even climbed through Stiles’s window. “Yeah, you’re an alpha, so make the right decision. Don’t get your pack in danger, don’t get yourself hurt. Don’t make me and persuade Scott to help you again. Running through forests is gonna hurt for a while.”

Part of Derek wanted to shove Stiles, tell him he had no say, he wasn’t pack, he wasn’t an alpha, and he was an idiot, but another part of him recalled Stiles keeping him afloat in eight feet of water for two hours so he wouldn’t drown, remembered Stiles readying himself to cut off Derek’s arm when he was shaking and terrified…

“Don’t get Erica, Isaac, and Boyd hurt,” Stiles said, and Derek nearly scoffed before Stiles continued, “And don’t get yourself killed, you idiot.”

He stared at him for a long moment, until Stiles looked away from his eyes, looking nervous, and stretched awkwardly before freezing, pain shooting through his arm.

“Uh, listen, I’m gonna – I’m gonna get some sleep.” He was looking at the floor as he said it, and Derek didn’t know why he suddenly seemed… subdued.

He didn’t like affiliating that word with Stiles. It was wrong. But Stiles wasn’t pack and his feelings shouldn’t bother Derek, he shouldn’t think twice about some stupid kid in someone else’s pack, so he swallowed any words that almost made their way out his throat and nodded curtly.

He didn’t say goodbye when he left, and he didn’t stay to find out if Stiles actually went to bed, and he told himself he didn’t care if Stiles was _upset_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be meeting Stiles's new psychiatrist in the next chapter. c: Hopefully he'll have one he can talk to and who'll help him talk about some things, and hopefully Derek's emotional constipation will clear up a little.
> 
> This chapter's a little longer than the others. I'm sorry my introspection goes so far. God, it must be so depressing to read. I made myself sad writing it! Stiles, you shouldn't think so badly of yourself. :c
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like it! Or, well, maybe, because you probably don't enjoy seeing Stiles sad, but let's all hope he'll be okay and I'm going to stop making notes right now before I ramble.


	4. Invisible

His body felt unusually heavy as he dragged his feet to school. Fog hung in the air like a dense cloud, shrouding everything, turning people into wisps of grey in the distance. He squinted through the veil of mist, feeling slightly relieved when he saw Scott in the distance. “Scott—” he called out, or tried to because – nothing was coming out, it was as silent as it was foggy, and it was getting thicker. He tried to breathe but he could inhale only shrouds that clogged his lungs and made him feel sick. He felt tears spring to his eyes as he gasped on nothing, rasping out his best friend’s name yet going utterly unheard. “Scott, Scott…” he gasped, lifting his arm to try and grasp for him, but now his body wouldn’t move either. Every time he tried to speak, tried to reach out, he felt numb and heavy and laden with thick, invisible smog. “Please, Scott, I need – I need—”

His body gave in, his legs collapsing from beneath him as his lungs finally stopped working, and not once did anyone turn around to see him fall, even as he pleaded for someone to notice. He was dying, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t scream, and nobody could see—

He lurched upwards, eyes shooting open as he gasped, heaving as he tried to breathe and bile rose in his throat. He swallowed thickly and fell backwards as a wave of vertigo rushed over him, ears screeching shrilly as everything blurred together. He breathed – he could breathe, okay, he was fine, he could breathe, it was okay, he told himself over and over.

Finally, when his breathing stopped stuttering and stopping and his heartbeat stopped rushing at a mile a minute, he forced his gaze to sweep around, and he realised he was in his room.

_A nightmare?_

He shut his eyes, relieved and exhausted at the same time, but they immediately snapped back open. He’d been so tired recently, every time he shut his eyes he nearly fell asleep, and he did not want to repeat that dream again. He supposed it was better than the dreams of his friends dying, his dad hating him, or even the one where Scott hadn’t gotten back in time to help Derek, but that was a dream he’d tried to pretend never happened.

_Why can’t I be normal and have fucking sex dreams like everyone else?_ he thought bitterly, shaking in his head as he shoved off his blankets, skin prickling with heat. He slid out and rushed into the bathroom, legs still unusually shaky and ears still ringing. He stood beneath the shower immediately, keeping it freezing so that maybe it could shock him back into lucidness.

He stared emptily at the tiles on the wall for a long while, thoughts dissipating until all he could hear was a nearly inaudible white noise, drowned out by the unrelenting spray of the shower on full power. He felt freezing for five minutes, but then it was just numb, and he couldn’t stand the feeling, hated the recollections of the dream and loathed wondering what it meant, so he turned up the heat until each drop singed his skin. It wasn’t enough to burn, but it tinged his skin dark pink and sparks of red-hot pain went through his skin.

It was better than feeling nothing.

After fifteen minutes of turning his thoughts off, he climbed out the shower, feeling stinging slightly as they met the cold floor. He grabbed his toothbrush and glanced up, freezing when he looked in the mirror. This was what people saw every day. This is what his friends, all amazingly intelligent, all stronger than him in different ways, all muscular or slender or both, this was what they all saw: a boy who looked scrawny beneath four layers of clothing, a kid on the lacrosse team who still had less muscle than his best friend’s girlfriend, the member of the pack who was too pudgy to be lanky and too scrawny to be toned and too ugly and yet too plain for anyone to like him.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes at himself and telling himself he was an idiot, because thinking all of these things would only make him feel worse, and they weren’t true anyway. He felt like an attention seeker somehow, because this was what they did: said they were fat, complained they were ugly, and declared how nobody would ever love them. But it’s not like he ever whined about it to anyone; he just said it to himself. Over and over again. When it was clear Lydia didn’t like him, when Scott found a girlfriend and forgot him, when Lydia fell for the guy who’d been a jerk to Stiles – although, he’d given it back as good as he got, sometimes. But still. And he didn’t want to play Nice Guy™, not again. So he resigned himself to the fact that he was unattractive, that he should lose weight and tone up, and then laughed at himself because he’d never look good next to his friends.

“No,” he said, glaring at himself in the mirror. “I’m not doing this,” he told himself, like it was an order, because he needed someone to tell him to stop this, stop being ridiculous, stop digging yourself deeper into your pit of self-hatred. It was like he was wading through water, stuck in the middle of a lake and unable to see land, calling out for help but receiving no answer, and he only got deeper and deeper, and got tangled up beneath the surface as he did so. The deeper he got, the harder it was to break free.

After brushing his teeth and pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind, he pulled on three shirts and a pair of baggy jeans that he occasionally had to hitch up. He didn’t remember them being too big, but then again he’d been doing a lot more during lacrosse lately, dedicating himself to practice to forget about his other problems for a while, not to mention running around trying to save people’s lives on a near daily basis.

But yeah, no, he couldn’t think about that right now, because if he started he wouldn’t stop; that was always Stiles’s problem. And he couldn’t do that when he had an appointment with his – his psychiatrist in—

He checked his watch and cursed. He only had ten minutes. How had he overslept? He was still so tired, he thought he must’ve woken up a couple of hours too _early_ , but no, he’d slept through his alarm.

He swore repeatedly, grabbing his bag and dashing to his jeep, not bothering with breakfast because he wasn’t hungry anyway, not after his fun little admiration session with the mirror. He could grab something later, anyway. It wasn’t a big deal.

Despite his reluctance to actually, y’know, talk to someone – talk to a _professional_ – about, well, god knows what, whatever the nurse had thought was wrong with him, a small part of him, buried beneath the sarcastic exterior, was ever so slightly relieved. He could talk to a stranger, someone whose judgement didn’t really matter too much, and what he told them was fairly confidential. He was – nervous, yeah. He was sixteen, not _legally_ an adult, so the psych could tell his dad certain things that seemed, I dunno, harmful and stuff, but he wasn’t really doing anything _bad_ , nothing that could end him up in the hospital – voluntarily, anyway – so that shouldn’t be a problem.

Despite the anxious churning in his stomach regarding his first therapy session, part of him couldn’t stop thinking about Scott. He may not be with Allison right now, but he still seemed pretty busy. Stiles had kind of hoped that he’d have his best friend back a little now that girls weren’t going to be a big focus for either of them, but evidently not. He’d received zero texts – zip, zilch, nada – and no calls either. From anyone.

(Except his dad to remind him about the session, short worded with a couple of spelling errors because his fingers were always stiff due to handling guns. And apparently an accident when he’d been with Stiles’s mom, but his dad had never gotten further in the story after mentioning her name, and Stiles never pushed.)

Initially, Stiles just tossed his phone onto the bed furiously and punched the mattress, telling himself he didn’t care, he should be used to it, but the ache in his chest reminded him with a cruel pang that he cared as much as he always did when he was left alone, forgotten amidst all the depressing and dangerous interwoven events occurring in Beacon Hills.

Or rather, amidst relationship problems, with a dash of werewolf stuff which Stiles “wouldn’t understand”.

Yeah, sure, maybe he wouldn’t fully understand their abilities, even if he knew them; maybe he wouldn’t understand their instincts, even though he’d researched them; maybe he’d never understand what they went through when they lost pack, even though he’d lost his mom. But how the hell could anyone tell him he didn’t understand when nobody ever bothered to tell him anything? Unless, of course, they were too damn lazy to find information themselves. Then they all ran to him, saying do this, do that, I’m stronger, I can protect people, _I only need you for this and then you’re on your own again_.

He jolted in his seat when a horn blared shrilly, and he cursed colourfully as he served, narrowly missing driving straight into another car.

“Fucking idiot!” someone shouted and, okay, yeah, they had a right; he hadn’t been paying attention. He never ignored the roads, no matter how hard it was for him to concentrate.

Heart hammering in his chest and anxiety making him feel lightheaded, he pulled up into the parking lot of a – pretty unimpressive building, actually, but this _was_ Beacon Hills. Even though it just seemed like a big house as opposed to the creepy haunted mansion he’d unintentionally pictured, it did little to soothe his nerves. He let go of the steering wheel and only then realised that his hands were shaking, and then felt a sudden rush of hot fury.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he hissed, feeling like an idiot, because he’d faced so much shit and now stuff like this – stuff that didn’t involve getting killed, but actually being helped, was what was making him tremble like a sinner in a church.

Yanking his keys from the ignition, he threw open the door and tried to appear languid as he walked up to the building. A couple and their little girl walked past, and he flipped his phone out and checked it, hesitant to enter when there were people around in case they knew it was for… well.

He jogged to the door and glanced around before going inside, heart beat disconcertingly fast and erratic over something so trivial as – as therapy.

He didn’t even need it. Even if a part of him _did_ want it, craved _desperately_ for someone to talk to, for someone to actually fucking _look_ at him and _listen_ and just _pay attention_ for _once_ – he didn’t need it. Anyone in Beacon Hills could be legible for therapy; he’d probably recommend it to several of his friends if he knew they wouldn’t take it as a joke or an insult. They all needed it more than he did. Their problems were encompassing; he was certain he’d suffocate if he were Isaac, unable to depend on his dad. Stiles’s relationship with his dad wasn’t perfect, but at least they _had_ each other.

But really, he should be the last person to receive help. Seriously. He didn’t need anything. Lydia was the one who thought she was going insane, who was terrified and bewildered and had nobody to turn to. Isaac was the one without family to depend on, who couldn’t trust now, who always thought people were out to hurt. Scott was the one whose life had been turned upside down and shaken up, whose girlfriend he loved was from a family that wanted him dead, whose mom sometimes still flinched when she looked at him. Derek was the one who’d lost nearly his entire family to someone he’d let himself love, who now refused to feel anything but anger and hatred in fear of vulnerability, who resonated _alone_ yet now had a pack who depended on him. Even Erica and Jackson, as much as Stiles was wary of them both, had bigger problems than he did, and a lot of those were family-related ones too.

Comparatively, Stiles had it great. He had a dad. Healthy? Not so much, maybe, but Stiles was looking after him. They lacked trust between them, but a lot of parents were disappointed in their kids sneaking out, no big deal. They’d barely spoken recently, but kids at school were constantly declaring their exasperation with their parents’ constant nagging, so he should be grateful. Maybe?

He’d never been abused, he still had his dad left, his grades were pretty good, although whenever he got lower than he “should” get, his teachers were quick to criticise, and it was all he could do not to tell them to shut the hell up, the lives of so many damn people in this place depend on Stiles staying up, researching, and making sure his friends don’t get killed so they can rescue people.

But instead he has to shrug, pretend he’s just slacking off, and tells himself his dad would be proud if he knew the truth.

He’s good at lying to himself, almost as good as he is at brushing matters under the rug and letting them fester into bigger piles that shouldn’t be able to be hidden anymore, pretending to forget when really he just doesn’t want to try getting rid of them in case he messes it up more.

“Stiles Stilinski?”

So, the voice of a therapist wasn’t the voice of impending destruction. Then again, he was surprised Derek’s voice wasn’t rumbling and low and gravelly, and that Peter’s voice too had been almost whimsical and serene when he’d offered Stiles the bite.

“That’s me,” he said, giving an awkward little smile that didn’t really look like one, and raised his hand in a jerky wave. “Hey.”

The man smiled and held out his hand. “My name is Jason,” he said, and Stiles shook his hand amicably, then tucked them into his pockets and shrugged, not sure what to say. “It’s nice to meet you, Stiles. Shall we go into a private room to talk?”

“Bet you say that to all the ladies,” said Stiles with a little wink, and Jason raised his eyebrows, looking both bemused and amused, but didn’t respond.

“Sit wherever you like,” he said, and Stiles shrugged again, a nervous habit now, and slumped into a chair near the window, before shifting awkwardly and fumbling as he fidgeted. “Nervous, Stiles?”

Stiles smiled slightly. “Uh, not really,” he lied. “Just – ADHD,” he explained awkwardly. He didn’t normally tell people outright; they usually just assumed her was hyperactive for no good reason, sought the attention, and ignored the fact that he took medication.

“Does it interfere with things a lot? School, socialising?” Jason asked, looking right at Stiles instead of the papers in his lap.

Stiles dropped his gaze, feeling uncomfortable meeting his eyes. “Uh, not much. Not anymore, I mean. Got used to it. I mean, not concentrating in lacrosse would get me mauled, so.”

“You play lacrosse?”

Stiles laughed quietly, picking at his nails. “I don’t seem the type, right? Yeah, I play,” he said, swallowing any bitterness in his voice. “My best friend’s amazing at it. Didn’t used to be, but. Yeah. And another – acquaintance, I guess? He’s the captain, so he’s awesome at it too, obviously. Gotta admit, I’m still pretty proud of myself for helping us win during the last game.” He raised his eyebrows as he grinned, glancing up for a second, before dropping his gaze to his lap again.

“You must be pretty good at it too, then,” said Jason, and Stiles decided that the slightly condescending tone was unintentional. This place was for little kids and teenagers, but more so the younger children. He found it kind of dumb to send him here since when he turned eighteen they wouldn’t see him anymore anyway.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m all right,” he agreed, because, well, he sort of was. If he scored a few times, well, they couldn’t all have been flukes, right? He had to be good at something instead of painfully, boringly average.

“What else do you like doing?”

Stiles huffed quietly out of his nose, picking at a thread determinedly, before looking up at Jason. “Can we not do the whole patronising list your strengths stuff? I’m not – I know I’m good at some things, I’m not so insecure that I think I’m crap at _everything_ ,” he said, because he didn’t want this to be more pointless counselling sessions where he discussed lacrosse and barely ever said anything about what he thought or felt. If he started hiding stuff here, he’d never stop.

Jason’s eyebrows rose. “Okay,” he said. “What should we talk about?”

“I don’t know,” said Stiles, shrugging, making a face, “Maybe the fact that I was sent here without consent? That people only think something is wrong with you when you’re hospitalised? That a freaking nurse I’ve never met before thinks something’s wrong when my friends think everything is fine and dandy? That my dad now thinks I’m insane?” He leaned forwards, giving a condescending little smile of his own. “Any of that in your notes there, doc?”

Jason was still looking at him with raised eyebrows, seeming faintly surprised. “Well,” he said slowly, dropping his papers onto the table in between them before sitting back and assessing Stiles. “A lot of passive aggressive patients I have don’t bring up resentments during sports discussions.”

Stiles stared blankly at him for a moment. Was this guy serious? Was he just brushing it off, making this a joke? He scoffed and shook his head, looking away to the side. “This is a bad idea.”

“What is?”

“Therapy,” Stiles deadpanned, trying not to let himself sound like he thought this guy was an idiot.

“Why?”

Stiles almost groaned, but instead he just let a strange sounding sigh escape that he couldn’t really feel, because it never felt like he was breathing anymore. He rubbed his forehead and shrugged, playing with his hands again. “Because I’m… Okay, so I’m not as fine as I could be, maybe, but I’m not as bad as some people are.”

“You shouldn’t compare your problems to other people’s,” Jason said, obviously something he said to at least ninety nine point recurring nine percent of his patients.

“Hard not to when everyone has it worse. No matter what’s wrong with me, someone else has it worse. I have ADHD, Erica has seizures. At least people know her illness is real and not some ploy for attention or something. And – and I don’t see my dad a lot?” he suggested, and Jason looked ready to latch onto that subject, but that wasn’t the _point_. “Not a big deal – Isaac’s dad… well, he wasn’t good to him. Allison’s family’s messed up. Scott’s dad’s not in the picture. And one guy, Derek Hale, all he has left is his freaking psycho uncle.” He shook his head, eyes widening, “I am fine. Totally fine. I have much less shit to cope with than most people I know, okay?”

“If you’re totally fine, then why have you taken the time to compare all your problems to other people’s?” Jason asked, like that had been the whole point of Stiles’s speech. Stiles inhaled deeply and rolled his eyes. “You must’ve thought about all of those things a lot to make your issues seem smaller. Does it help?”

“That’s not what I was saying,” Stiles said, frowning slightly.

“I know,” said Jason. “I think you use it as a coping mechanism – comparing your problems to others’, making yours seem smaller in comparison. Maybe you’ve been doing it for so long you don’t even realise it for what it is.”

“I don’t _need_ a coping mechanism,” Stiles snapped, trying hard to reign in his frustration and not raise his voice. He didn’t even know why he suddenly felt so angry, but his pulse was skyrocketing, and it wasn’t fear, it was just _rage_. And wow, he thought Derek had a bad temper.

(To be fair, Stiles had never slammed anyone into a wall, just saying.)

Jason regarded him seriously for a moment before shrugging a shoulder. “Okay,” he said. “So you said your dad thinks you’re insane.”

Stiles bit the inside of his lip, trying to let his boiling anger to sizzle down, and trying to force away the wave of misery that washed over him at the mention of his dad. “Yeah. Well, how could he not?” he laughed, and it sounded more self-deprecating than he’d ever heard it. “I’m always lying to him, he’s always suspicious of me, doesn’t trust me _at all_ , not that he has much reason to, admittedly.” He inclined his head at the admission, giving a strange little shrug because he wasn’t sure what he was trying to say. “I always act weird around him. Around most people, really, but…” _Those people aren’t the only one who still cares about me._ “Those people aren’t my dad.” He was staring at his hands, licking his lips as he focused on breathing evenly, but he could feel his skin prickling where Jason was looking at him.

“Do you think he loves you?”

“He’s my dad,” Stiles said instinctively, “I know he does, yeah.”

His heartbeat was irregular as he said it, but Jason couldn’t hear that, just as he couldn’t hear it when Stiles said really, he was fine, he didn’t need this.

He must’ve seen something though, because he arranged for Stiles to come back and talk next Friday afternoon, and Stiles felt both annoyed that he was forced to come back, and relieved he wouldn’t have to make an excuse to return.

How did he have mixed emotions about _everything_?

**x.**

He tripped on his way to his Jeep, and then hit his head getting in, and really, he was used to being clumsy, so he didn’t know why those tiny incidents that should’ve been insignificant made him feel like hitting himself and made him mutter “stupid fucking _idiot_ ” to himself consecutively for five minutes. Seriously, he even knew a female werewolf who had two “times of the month” _aaand_ a pretty bad attitude a lot of the time, and he had a feeling he was more neurotic than she was.

Okay. Okay, he had to get a damn grip. He bit his lip hard and blinked rapidly, clutching the steering wheel as hard as he had when Derek’s life had been in danger. He was _fine_ , for god sake, and he had to go to school.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and suddenly dreaded lacrosse practice, dreaded seeing his friends, dreaded having to pull up his nonchalant exterior and think up sarcastic quips so he’d seem normal enough for nobody to ask questions.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want people asking questions because they’d find out Stiles wasn’t as okay as he should be. It was more that he was afraid they’d notice and wouldn’t care. If he didn’t let them see anything was amiss, it wasn’t their fault for being oblivious, and Stiles could pretend it wasn’t because they just didn’t give a damn about him.

He really, _really_ did not want to go into school. He knew that was kind of a _thing_ for most teenagers, hating school, but he just. He felt exhausted all the time, and that coupled with his ADHD made it hard to focus at all. He was sick of Mr. Harris calling him stupid, saying cruel things that he told himself a lot of the time, and he always felt impending dread whenever he walked into a classroom and Scott looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, which he often did. It meant Stiles had to ignore the strange constant niggling anxiety in his head, the kind that made his stomach hurt and stomach ache, and put on a brave face and ask Scott what was up.

He didn’t want to go in and have to comfort anyone when all he wanted was to sleep this lingering _feeling_ away, didn’t want to have to sit through Chemistry and drift off to self-deprecating thoughts or wondering when something would next go wrong and then be ridiculed, didn’t want to sit through lunch and try to discuss something like lacrosse or Guild Wars when he wanted to _scream_. He could hear _so much_ , all the time, snippets of the conversations around them, and couldn’t stop focusing on them sometimes. He was hyperaware of everyone, and nobody even glanced his way. It was like he was invisible, and he felt sick, felt like panicking.

And maybe he already was, because as soon as he got to class, Scott was already looking at the doorway and was frowning, looking almost _worried_. The teacher just waved him to a seat, and Stiles was never so grateful to attend Math because even if Harris had received a note about Stiles being late, he’d still call him out on it and be a dick.

He didn’t have to worry about Scott confronting him just yet because Isaac was sat next to him, and maybe that should’ve made Stiles relieved for a momentary reprieve. But no, of course not, he could never be pleased, because his stupid head couldn’t help but remind him that Isaac was a better friend than Stiles was. He knew they’d been kind of close for a while, and for a while he wanted to blame the whole werewolf thing on it, but he knew that it was really because he was just a plain, average, boring human who was weak and vulnerable and susceptible to attack.

Not that it mattered, because Scott had never even asked if he was okay after – after Gerard had taken him the first time.

But, ugh, fantastic, absolutely positively _great_ , the only free seat was one beside Jackson’s. This day hadn’t stopped getting better, really.

He dumped his bag and practically collapsed in his seat, because he was _tired_ , goddamn it, so freaking tired.

“You look like hell.”

He dragged his gaze up from the desk, raising his eyebrows at Jackson, and stomped down on the urge to say _I’m in it_. “Well, we can’t all be as pretty as you, Jackson.”

He scowled, clenching his jaw and gritting his teeth. “You know what I meant.” Wow, he was turning into a mini blond Derek now, fantastic. Like one wasn’t enough.

“Math isn’t my favourite class,” said Stiles because Jackson was still frowning at him in a way that didn’t scream bloody murder but didn’t remind him of any look he’d given Stiles before and thus he assumed it was something along the lines of breaking his neck. “Plus I’ve been busy with research for Derek, who is harder to please than Lydia, no matter how much those shoes cost.” And flat screen, but Jackson didn’t need to know just how invested Stiles was in his infatuation with Lydia, especially when he was glaring at Stiles like that and still couldn’t control his newly acquired werewolf powers just yet.

Why did Stiles always bear the brunt of angry werewolves’ actions? Scott tried to kill him, and he kissed Lydia when Stiles was still sure that he was madly in love with her, Isaac tried to kill him, Erica took the route of dramatic irony and knocked him out with a part of his own vehicle, and the only activity Derek seemed to enjoy was intimidating or threatening him. Werewolves and Stiles mixed about as well as Hydrogen and Oxygen did on Hindenburg.

Jackson was _still_ glowering and after staring at Stiles for an unnerving amount of time that made him feel terribly self-conscious, damn it all, he opened his mouth to speak. “Stilinski—” he began, but the teacher glared sharply at him.

“Mr. Whittemore, _kindly_ stop talking and do your work.”

Stiles sighed. Thank god, that put an end to what was inevitably a threatening maybe-interrogation, and he was _so_ not a fan of those, even if he had won more arguments than the Mets had games.

Nevertheless, as he stared blankly down at his paper, hands trembling as he gripped his pen, he could feel Jackson’s gaze burning into him.

People _never_ noticed things. Why would they start now?

He was probably just angry at Stiles for not being over his crush on Lydia yet. Nobody ever noticed him for _him_. Lydia noticed him to seek help for Jackson, Derek noticed him to get Scott into his pack, and his dad only noticed him when he did something wrong.

He was always doing something wrong.

**x.**

“Why were you late today, man?” Scott asked as he sat opposite him at lunch.

“Had to get my prescription updated,” he said. “Ran out of Adderall.”

Scott tilted his head, still wearing that strange concerned expression he seemed to have a lot these days. It made Stiles rueful and nostalgic, and god knew he was too young to feel that way yet, but still. Scott used to smile a lot more. And so did he.

He wondered if Derek used to, before realising he’d never seen him smile.

Except for when he flirted with that woman, but that was fake as hell and Stiles thought she was stupid for believing that farce. Idiot.

Then he wondered why he was thinking about Derek in the first place. And his _smile_. What the _hell_.

“I guess that’s why your heart’s beating so weirdly,” Scott said, and Stiles felt it stop for a second, before he shrugged like he hadn’t noticed.

“That,” he agreed amicably, giving a little smile, “and the two energy drinks I had on my way here, plus the one I’m having now.” He took a swig of the coke and, while it tasted bland in his throat, Scott chuckled.

“Don’t crash during practice.”

“Pshh. You’ve gotta have more faith in me, man,” he said, and Scott laughed again.

Jokes and sarcasm always made people think he wasn’t serious. _That_ was his defence mechanism, thank you very much, Jason.

**x.**

By the end of the day, his head was riddled with so many thoughts going on several tangents at once that it was almost dizzying. He wondered if his dad was going to be home late without telling him again, which always made Stiles think he was hurt or – or dying. He wondered if Jackson would transform on the field if someone looked at him funny and try to hurt them, and if Stiles would be selfless enough to try and take the attack for them. He thought about Allison taking Scott back, half hoping she would because he always seemed kind of drifting without her to anchor him, and half readying himself for the inevitable dismissal of his friendship again. He worried about the alpha pack attacking Derek when the pack was in school, and he felt kind of nauseous at the thought of Peter being around.

He was so far away, he didn’t even realise he’d fallen over until Scott was leaning over him. His mouth was moving, but sound was fuzzy, like when you first woke up from a dream and you weren’t conscious, just hovering in between. And then he lurched back, inhaling like he hadn’t been breathing, and sat up abruptly. He caught himself when he fell back, because he _always_ caught himself, nobody else ever helped.

“Stiles, you okay?”

_No, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I don’t know why I’m not okay, I shouldn’t not be fine, but I’m not, I’m tired and I’m suffocating and I’m absolutely terrified and nobody notices._ “Yeah,” he said without thinking, blinking exaggeratedly and heaving a weird sounding laugh. “Guess I was distracted.”

“Distracted? You can’t afford to be distracted!” Coach Finstock shouted furiously, and Stiles looked down at his lap and just took it, just let the rebukes fall over him like rain, but there weren’t enough raindrops in the overcast sky to make up for how many times he’d thought himself useless.

Even when it came to stupid pointless _human_ things, he got it all wrong.

He jerked his gaze up when Finstock clapped him on the shoulder, and opened his mouth because Coach was looking at him like he was waiting for something, but he didn’t know what to say. “Uh.”

He shook his head, looking frustrated, and huffed. “Don’t want to hear it anyway. We’re done now, everyone hit the showers, go home, see you next time.”

Stiles didn’t like showering around the guys on the team, just like how he’d never liked changing in front of anyone since he was ten and some kid had made fun of how many moles and he had on his skin. His mom had called them beauty marks. He obviously hadn’t inherited her optimism.

When most of the guys were ambling out of the changing rooms, laughing raucously and sharing inside jokes and making fun of each other’s football teams, Stiles spared a moment to remember when he and Scott used to be like that, having serious discussions over Gears of War and Metal Gear Solid and the Mets instead of kanimas and people dying and alpha packs. He shook his head, dismissing it, because Scott dealt with all the change, so he could too. And sure, maybe he turned the shower up hot enough to turn his skin red and burn a little again, but he was cold.

Scott was gone by the time he’d finished, and even as he punched his locker and felt some skin tear on his knuckles, he told himself it didn’t matter.

He pretty much dealt with the death of his mom alone, so he could deal with whatever the fuck was going on with him on his own too. He never needed anyone.

**x.**

He was picking at the torn skin on his hands when Derek appeared in his window, looking perhaps a tad too angry and rugged to be Rapunzel’s prince climbing up her tower, but the quip died in Stiles’s throat before he even opened his mouth.

“We’ve not gone after Gerard yet,” said Derek, staring at Stiles, like looking at him could miraculously make him understand everything that Derek had left unsaid because while the guy didn’t mind exercising for hours on end, he didn’t like speaking more than a few words. Monosyllables were the way to go, unless dishing out threats, so maybe this was an accomplishment for him, but still.

“Well done, you’re not a complete self-destructive idiot,” Stiles said with false cheer, giving a plastic grin as he yanked off a stray bit of skin. Blood welled up in the cut and he watched it for a moment, before rubbing it off quickly, making his thumb slip like it was an accident, and jolting slightly when he a flash of pain from scraping his cut.

“Obviously can’t say the same for you,” Derek muttered, glaring at Stiles’s hand like it was the bane of his existence. But then again, he looked at everything like that. Fit the whole ‘Big Bad Wolf’ persona to a T, almost made Stiles want to bring out his red hoodie, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to actually be devoured by him.

Cannibalism-wise, not – okay, no, not going there, no.

“Lacrosse practice,” he explained, although Derek obviously wouldn’t care. The guy had taken a wolfsbane bullet, this was just scraped knuckles. He felt inferior somehow, which was ridiculous because now he was comparing _injuries_. Wow. God.

Derek just scowled at him.

“Conversing with you is always _such_ a treat. I look forward to it, I truly do,” drawled Stiles, rolling his eyes, sucking his bleeding knuckle for a second before jerking it down and hiding it behind his other hand when Derek stared. “But, uh, would you mind telling me why you’re visiting this time? Please don’t tell me you became a fugitive without me helping, harbouring one is more than enough, especially when your dad’s the sheriff.”

“I wasn’t guilty.”

“I know that.” He sighed, tired, and ran a hand over his head, feeling his tufts of hair again. Yeah, he hadn’t cut it in ages. Maybe he’d let it grow out, he couldn’t be bothered with getting it buzzed. Everything seemed like too much effort nowadays – waking up, showering, brushing his teeth, even getting his hair buzzed seemed exhausting to _think_ about now. “Sooo…?” he prompted, because he really wanted to sleep, but at the same time he knew even if Derek wasn’t here unnerving him Stiles still wouldn’t even attempt to go to sleep until at least 2:00am because he was an idiot and he was paranoid all the time.

“Has the alpha pack been around?” Derek asked. “Have they given anyone any trouble?”

“You mean have they tried to enlist Scott among their ranks or something? No,” said Stiles. Really? He’d come here just to ask that? He could’ve texted or something. “We’ve not seen anyone new around, it’s been perfectly quiet.” He raised his eyebrows and made a face, leaning forwards. “They’re waiting.”

Derek’s brows furrowed, as they always did.

“Could you just get out? I’m tired.”

One second, he was slumping heavily in his chair, and the next he was up against the wall, Derek’s hands fisted in his shirt and his face an inch away from his own. He felt his breath hitch and hunched his shoulders.

“Listen. To. Me.”

“Right, sure, absolutely. Listening, one hundred and ten percent attentive, definitely.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed even further, and Stiles could hear his own breathing and heartbeat now, so it must’ve been embarrassingly loud to Derek’s ears. After an unnervingly long moment of being stared at, he decided to chance saying, “Derek?”

His voice may have cracked a bit, but not much.

“You’re more anxious than you usually are,” said Derek, and Stiles swallowed, feeling slightly sick.

“Could be the Adderall?” Why did it sound like a question?

Derek stared at him. “You do smell of medicine sometimes.”

“You didn’t know I took it?” Stiles asked with a small frown, feeling kind of disappointed for some reason, before shaking his head and laughing derisively. “No, right, of course you wouldn’t. But yes, my charmingly charismatic personality is not solely my own doing, but also that of my friend ADHD.”

Derek regarded him for a long moment and why the hell was he still holding onto Stiles’s shirt? “That… makes sense.”

“It sure does, buddy, now would you mind letting go?” he asked, both because the proximity was unnerving since his heart hadn’t slowed down yet and because he didn’t particularly want to discuss any sort of _disorder_ he may have with Derek Hale. Especially when he was seeing a psychiatrist now, and it wasn’t because of attentive issues, but because a nurse was concerned enough to tell his dad and his dad thought he was crazy enough to need to talk to someone. Someone _else_ , obviously, because they never talked.

God, had he thought that?

No, it was a mutual unspoken understanding between them; neither of them were good at talking, and the sheriff was busy a lot. Stiles knew it wasn’t his fault.

“Stiles!” snapped Derek, jostling him slightly and pushing him back against the wall with a small thump.

He blinked, raising his gaze to meet Derek’s. “Derek?”

“I _said_ ,” Derek spat, and Stiles swallowed again. “Have all your injuries healed?”

Stiles’s lips fell open, honestly surprised. Derek – Derek actually asked if he was okay, sort of, when Scott hadn’t, and – and – _what_?

“I,” he said, and realised his voice sounded off, so he cleared his throat and looked away and back again. “I’m fine.”

Derek frowned at that and Stiles didn’t know why, because it was the right answer, wasn’t it? He was fine, Derek couldn’t slam him into the wall and accuse him of lying because he said “I’m fine” all the time and nobody glared at him like this. They always seemed relieved, not annoyed.

“Well,” he amended, because Derek was still staring him in the same way he had when he threatened to rip his throat out, “My arm’s still pretty weak and my leg kind of hurts sometimes, so I’m pretty useless at lacrosse right now, but it could be worse, and the team has Scott, Jackson, and Danny anyway, so it’s not like this means imminent failure for us. Not that me being out of commission would even force anyone to consider the prospect of us losing, because we’re awesome.” He stopped before he could digress even more, and eventually just sighed, eyes falling shut. “Please let go.”

He did, gradually, to Stiles’s surprise. He eased his fingers out of Stiles’s shirt with agonising slowness, and even backed off a step. Stiles looked back at him to see Derek studying him or _something_ , and felt his own gaze drop before lurching back up to Derek’s eyes again, just as Derek’s did.

He had no idea what to say. Thousands of lies and excuses drifted through his mind but all got lost at his lips because it was impossible to lie to Derek and – and he was _staring_ at him like that.

But he was spared having to come up with something to say, because the next time he blinked Derek was gone, Stiles’s curtains fluttering in his wake.

He sunk to the floor, burying his face in his arms. He felt so fucking pathetic. Nobody – nobody knew what was wrong, even if they suspected something was, because nobody was asking. And he must be getting desperate to wish that Derek Hale had stayed and threatened him into spilling everything. He felt so pathetically alone right now, even though he had no right to feel that way, especially knowing what happened to Derek’s family, but – in that moment that Derek had been right in front of him and actually _looked_ at him, not glanced and forgot, actually _looked_ and _focused_ , Stiles had wanted to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about all the run-on sentences and jumbled structure to this, but I was hoping to present Stiles's confusion and overlapping feelings in the format as well as the words themselves.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like it. c: I'm back to school tomorrow (last year before university, eep), but that shouldn't stop me from updating fairly regularly, so I'll try to have the next chapter up soon.


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